The Kiss On My List Collection
by MadameMorganLeFay
Summary: Kisses between a range of pairings in a variety of scenario's. Enjoy (or not). Alternately, protest that your favourite pairing is not there.
1. Hot Steamy Kiss

**THE "KISS ON MY LIST" COLLECTION**

**Summary:** Kisses between a range of pairings in a variety of scenario's. Enjoy (or not). Alternately, protest that your favourite pairing is not there.

**Notes:** Readers are free to request a pairing and/or scenario. Just PM me. Credit for finding idea/Creating title goes to ExcaliburMaiden.

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**Prompt #1: ****Hot Steamy Kiss**

**Featuring: Merlin/Morgana**

Merlin had grown wise to Morgana's favourite ploy of inviting him into her chambers in the evening to play chess, because he had noticed the trend between these private meetings, and the number of times the conversation always winded up delving into intimate matters. He knew this very well... but still, he kept going because he saw that the so-called role of being a Royal Ward was not very interesting- very restrictive, in fact- for Morgana, and that she really did feel rather isolated, always longing for company. He could sympathise with that, and besides, he could never resist a woman.

This evening was no different to any other. She had invited him to play chess; he had put down the medical text he had been studying, nodded meekly, followed her back to her chambers. They had sat down; Merlin had offered to lay out the pieces. She had agreed to play Black, him White. They had begun- him focusing on what piece to move first, her watching him intently, before realizing that she would blow her cover if she did not move soon. Today it transpired that Merlin was playing better, neatly capturing her bishop within a few minutes.

She pouted, and refused to move another piece out of a dubious conviction that he was cheating. Before Merlin could defend himself, she had scattered the pieces, demanding that they start again. As surprising and unfair as this was, it was something that Merlin was fast becoming used to.

"So," she began, pretending to be nonchalant, "have you found out what magical things your manhood can do yet?" She cocked her head at him, smirking; joking about Merlin's sexual innocence was one of her favourite past-times.

"Your turn to move," he reminded her, ignoring her comment.

"Have you grown hair there, yet?"

"A rook cannot jump over a pawn to come into play; only a Knight can."

Morgana pouted, and flicked a pawn into play; it moved two squares.

"I will take that as a no, then."

"Pawns can only move one square," he added helpfully.

"Huh!" she snorted, annoyed that he was ignoring her bait; "Pawns are small- like your penis," she purred, fixing him with her bewitching gaze.

"Morgana, stop being so immature- if that is physically possible for you..."

She glared at him for that, even after he grinned his most charming, impudent grin, and threw another pawn at his head. Her aim was frighteningly good; he cried out in pain.

"Ha!" She scattered all the pieces once more. "Let's play again."

"Fine," he sighed, rearranging the pieces once more, totally resigned to her whims and caprices by now.

"Except..."she interrupted him, a slender, soft hand on his, making his heart race, "I play naked!"

She smiled brightly into his disbelieving eyes. Merlin froze, studying her, trying to gauge her true intents and meanings- did she actually mean what she had said, or was she just playing him? Last time, she had warned him that if he lost, he would have to undress her, but it came to pass, she suddenly announced her exhaustion, and allowed him to leave, chastity intact. You could never tell with Morgana; she always had some devious trick up her sleeve, but even the concealed cards played close to her chest could not be relied upon. Her mind was a seething whirl of calculations, opportunities and manipulative vices, and Merlin knew that he could guess as much as he wanted, but he would probably never learn all of her gimmicks.

"You do not believe me?" she murmured. "Well- fine then." She stood up, seemingly in a(nother) huff... and undid her bodice, vigorously snapping the cords. He watched, transfixed as she slowly peeled her outer layers away to reveal a smooth, delicately curved, supple body that shimmered in the candlelight. All the blood in his body scrambled down south. "What is wrong, Merlin? Is it not a good view?"

He gulped visibly, before trying to focus on the game at hand.

"Can we play now?"

"Of course we can play, Merlin."

But she did not sit down; instead, she came around until she was behind him, and that is when he knew for certain that Morgana had other things on her mind than the game.

"Whaaa?"

"Shhh..."

"I am pretty sure this is NOT chess, Morgana..."

"Oh, but it is; see how my Rook moves in a straight line down your chest...?" He gasped in response at the precise yet clumsy movement of her hands. "And see how my bishop moves diagonally across your face?" Her lips brushed and grazed his face, neck and shoulders. "And see how your Pawn goes en passant, and captures my face?" She turned his face upwards so that their noses were touching. "See how my Queen takes your King in delicious checkmate?"

Her lips took his, fingers running through his hair, ignoring his gasps of discomfort as his neck began to feel the strain; she sucked at his mouth, let her tongue dart across and inside it, allowed her teeth to sink themselves into them, and repeated the whole process again, and again, and again, and Merlin's senses shut down one by one, and he could not think, and he could not breathe, and he could not see.

All too soon, it ended, leaving him with a crick in his neck, and swollen lips, staring blindly at her as she chuckled, walking back to her chair, and concentrating on the game.

"Should I play another pawn?" she asked innocently.

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**NEXT TIME:** Arthur and Mithian go on a hunt...

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Did you like? Didn't you like? Or just... meh?


	2. Cheek Kiss

**Prompt #2: Cheek Kiss**

**Featuring: Arthur/Mithian**

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Anything can happen on a hunting trip.

In theory, King Arthur and Princess Mithian were supposed to be killing wild game for their own entertainment, armed with their fatally swift arrows in the neighbouring forests to Camelot's Castle, accompanied by a few guards who trailed them at a respectful distance. This had been a pre-arranged excursion at the playfully murderous behest of the visiting Princess herself, a proposal that he, the dreamy-eyed monarch, had agreed to instantly, deploying a flurry of servants to make the necessary preparations during the night so that he could impress her the next day when she saw that they would be starting out promptly.

It was not that they had failed to catch anything. Certain parts of the forest floor were now strewn with the spread-eagled corpses of rabbits and hares in varying stages of rigor mortis with spears protruding from their bodies at odd angles. Yes, they had slain several harmless creatures, but they had not been particularly interested in going to collect their prizes, simply shrugging and moving off somewhere else to end the life of another animal. In fact, they were more interested in teasing, joking, and competing with each other rather than refining the art of murder:

"If we climbed some of these trees, Arthur, I think we could nab a few more of these blasted little scramblers," Mithian advised, her bloodthirstiness complimented by a cunning smile that made Arthur's senses go blank momentarily before he cleared his throat and concurred enthusiastically.

"You are right of course, my Lady. Do you need a hand?"

She laughed at that. "Just because I wear a dress does not mean that I cannot climb trees, Arthur… but if you really wish to look chivalrous, I suppose…" She threw him a teasing grin, flinging her perfectly curled hair over her shoulder with one graceful flick of her head. Stepping towards him, she held out a well-manicured hand, which he took eagerly, leading her to the tree that she chose, and helped her mount the first sturdy branch, whereupon she removed her hand from his and scaled the rest with surprising speed. When she reached the top, she peeked down to give him a triumphant smirk. "Nothing to it, is there?"

Arthur stared.

"Did you just say something?" he rasped a few seconds later, frowning in an endearing manner. "Oh yes- of course; climbing trees is a simple matter!"

"Would you like to join me? There is plenty of room!" She patted a branch that was perpendicular to the one that she sat on, boldly straddling it since she wore breeches like him. He, too made short work of the tree, even with the disadvantage of being clad in burdensome armour, and mounted the designated branch with ease, even leaning back against the main trunk for added comfort and swinging his legs. "You're good," she praised him, poking him with an arrow. "You are a shameless show-off, but you are good."

"I aim to please," he replied with his usual lack of modesty.

Mithian laughed again, which of course, once again signalled the end of Arthur's already sorely-strained thinking capacity. The Princess was beginning to see this, and although she had reminded herself to make him feel comfortable around her, she had to confess that she liked the fact that he could not take his eyes off her. It was infinitely liberating, not to mention hugely encouraging for their impending marriage. How fortunate to actually like the man she had been engaged to without her consent? It almost made arranged marriage redeemable.

"Look, a shrew!" she cried in excitement, and grabbed her arrow, ready to aim. One release, and the rodent squeaked in terror, underwent some sort of seizure, before succumbing to death; Mithian laughed in delight. "Excellent!"

"Nonsense," Arthur commented drily, "I'll wager that thing is only half-impaled upon your spear, but I suppose you deserve a toast when we return," and they snickered heartily over the tasteless proposal of celebrating the death of another living being.

He smiled at her.

She smiled at him.

Self-consciousness set in, and they both hastily reverted their attention to the pleasures of slaughter, each watching the other's shot, hiding how impressed they were by disparaging it, and then trying to best that with their own, only for the other to hide how impressed they were, and so on and so forth.

A few hours later, Mithian expressed a desire to head back to the Castle, and so to oblige her wishes, Arthur slithered down first, and then held an arm out for her, true to the paradigm of chivalry. She smiled, deciding to play along, but somewhere along the line, she slipped slightly, and landed squarely into Arthur's arms, her face inches away from his.

She stared- because he was even more handsome up close than she had expected. Stunning, even. The composite expression on his face indicated that his thoughts ran along the same lines. For an indefinite few seconds, they were frozen in that moment of wonder, until the spell had to be broken when reality set in; they were not alone, after all.

"Sorry," she murmured quickly. He nodded absent-mindedly, still goggling at her.

She was just about to retrieve up her fallen bow when out of the blue, he closed the distance between them and gave her a lingering kiss on the cheek.

Of course, the faithful guards pretended that they had seen nothing, even if they were chortling into their helmets.

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**NEXT TIME:** Merlin is ill and Arthur is miserable...

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This is tame, no? I try to make each instalment more substantial than the pairing just kissing. Not many Arthur/Mithian shippers knocking around though. So I am doing this for the team (me)!


	3. Forehead Kiss

**Prompt #3: Forehead Kiss**

**Featuring: Arthur, Merlin**

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Arthur observed the heaving, writhing figure sprawled on a plain bed in front of him.

Soon, Gaius would finish preparing a strong onion and herbal broth that would continue to ease the grip of the fever that Merlin had caught on their recent excursion to the village of Drychen. If he looked to be in a particularly pitiful state now, with sallow cheeks, cold bluish-purple skin, parched, cracked lips and bruised eyelids, Arthur knew that he had been in a far worse condition beforehand when they were still at Drychen, choking, wheezing, vomiting, and his body racked by regular spasms that had rendered him immobile for several hours, just groaning on painfully hot stone path in the middle of the largely silent village.

Arthur did not think that he had ever felt so utterly devastated as he had then, watching his servant held in the merciless sway of the horribly violent malady, and him being powerless to alleviate Merlin's pain in any way. It did not matter that his life itself was not in danger, it was simply the shocking image of a warm-hearted, smiling, upbeat man suffering in his place all because he, Arthur, had been hungrily foolish enough to grab an ear of corn from a field they passed, meaning to eat it, and Merlin had insisted on tasting it first to see if it was safe. As Merlin progressed from moderately queasy to visibly contagious, it was sadly obvious that randomly picking corn from the dry fields of Drychen had been a foolish idea of his, and yet no harm had befallen him for it.

Finally, at the very point where it seemed that no help would come, when Arthur was on the brink of abject despair, an old sage had shuffled past at dusk, taking pity on the invalid, and had wordlessly carried him to his home on the outskirts of the village, where both men had stayed, even though only Merlin required treatment.

His diet became a sickening routine of raw onions, honey, lemon, a viscous, bitter black liquid in a jar and an array of specially-selected herbs, but it worked; the worst of his illness gradually subsided, leaving a man who remained sickly, but was no longer at danger of passing the fever onto anyone else, and who was just about strong enough to return home. Arthur had been relieved; that way he could pretend that he had not seen the sage's stash of magical literature stacked in a corner of his hut, or him whispering quickly over the thick black substance before administering it to his servant. The only thing that mattered was that Merlin would be able to ride back to Camelot where Gaius would complete the job.

And so to the present; the King watching his manservant with trepidation even though he had been assured that Merlin surely would recover. From time to time, he would stare out of the window impatiently, watching Gaius work outside over a pot and a thick tome, frantically willing him to hurry up and help Merlin, trying not to forget that the old man was as worried as he.

Gaius eventually finished, and Arthur felt a surge of hope flare within him, even as he cast vulnerable, anxious looks at both men. The Court Physician set the broth down carefully, subsequently walking over to his charge and gently awakening him. Cerulean eyes flickered open hesitantly, languid and tortured, a sight which made the King simply want to cry, regardless of his strong aversion to open emotional displays.

"Whaaa…?" Merlin croaked as a bowl was brought to his lips. "N-No…." He swayed away from the broth weakly, face screwed up into an expression of disgust; he turned pleading eyes to the King for help.

Arthur felt a growing lump in this throat as he leaned forward, tentatively but firmly turning Merlin's head back towards the foul-smelling steaming bowl.

"You must; it will make you feel better… please, Merlin…"

The other sighed in resignation and assented. He winced as he forced himself to swallow every scalding, disgusting mouthful of broth. Afterwards, the Court Physician bade him lie back down again, rest as much as he could before he trudged off on his rounds.

"Leave him now, Arthur," he called over his shoulder as he left.

The King really could not bear to do so, but it was exceedingly frustrating watching his friend's sluggish recovery, so maybe his time might be better spent doing something that required a surfeit amount of concentration at least to hold his sadness at bay. His eyes swept back to the bed, watching the now sleeping form of his closest friend in the world. Subconsciously, he reached out a hand that grazed across his manservant's face. Merlin would get better, he reminded himself firmly- very soon. That was the one fact that could sustain him during the agonising waiting game.

Leaning over from his chair, he kissed his servant's forehead, and left the room before he could persuade himself to stay.

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**NEXT TIME:** Arthur and Guinevere discover their love...

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Yep, still tame here. Not really slash, this one, I don't think.


	4. Then There's the Tongue

**Prompt #4: Then There's The Tongue**

**Featuring: Arthur/Guinevere**

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Arthur Pendragon was concentrating.

Ever since he had been a boy, his father had taught him that fluency in Latin was the mark of a high-born. The Prince fancied himself an unquestioningly obedient son, holding the advice and guidance of his father in the highest esteem, so every day he sat quietly in front of his tutor Magnus Romulus for two straight hours, any hint of his normal braggadocio nonexistent, if only for the while that he was being instructed in the rudiments of the archaic Roman tongue.

It was not difficult, he reasoned to himself as he carefully wrote out a list of infinitives - his competence in the language was satisfactory- but it simply was not…interesting to him. Arthur had tried hard to quell his private misgivings about the inherent lack of excitement in his lessons as opposed to the art of Knighthood, but truth be told, his heart was not invested in the present tense of _dare_, or the imperfect of _laborare_; he failed to see how any of those annoyingly complex grammatical structures could ever help him in the future, especially against the potent threats of bad harvest, drought and war, even if being able to say them would impress all those grizzled, stony grey elders his father counted as friends. Therefore, when he made an error in his work, he only felt a mere twinge of frustration, and only because his father would not be pleased; left to him, he could not care less whether he had used an incorrect declension or misspelled a word.

"My Lord?"

Arthur's bright blue eyes quickly refocused on the shrivelled lemon features of his tutor, a poor substitute for the brilliant golden sunshine that streamed through his window, chastising himself for allowing his concentration to slip.

"I am sorry, Master Magnus; what is it you were saying?"

"I was asking you to recall for me the three different endings of all Latin verbs?"

"Of course, Master Magnus; -are, -ere, and –ire."

"Very good, My Lord."

After another hour, Arthur had learnt how to conjugate basic verbs and had been asked to recite from a simple text, which he had done, even if his tone had been stilted and lacklustre. In due course, his daily trial soon came to a close (by far the Prince's favourite part of his lessons) and Magnus would shuffle out after bowing several times in Arthur's presence as if the latter had done him some great favour simply by being available for instruction rather than it being the other way around, leaving his charge with the general (yet unspoken) expectation that the next hour or so be spent pondering over what he had been taught.

Arthur rarely, if ever, followed through on this premise. In fact, as soon as Magnus shut his door, he would contemptuously brush his scrolls aside, stretch his arms in glee, and spring out of his chair either to admire himself in a nearby mirror, or to stare out of his window in rapt fascination, or to yell for Merlin out of a well-disguised desire for company, but always- always- to daydream about the one prize that eluded even an entitled man such as he was.

How could it be that a curly-haired serving girl was the source of simultaneous happiness and pain? A woman whose shy exterior hid a steely interior, a sharp tongue with a penchant for brutal honesty and sly wit, whose smile could stoke a thousand fires in his heart, whose mere existence had become the primary reason for his being. Only this woman out of all those who were far more eligible and of higher birth held his attention and devotion in a wonderfully unyielding grip, and he liked to think that she reciprocated his feelings from the tiny indicators she had thrown his way; a glance or a smile that was longer than usual, but it was hard to know with Guinevere, for she was not one to stare dreamily into his eyes like the proverbial damsel. She was sensible, practical, demure, and above all, a master of tact, despite her outspoken nature. As much as he admired those qualities, it was frustrating that she would not be more open about any feelings that she might have for him.

Then again, it had only been after Merlin's repeated wheedling that he had finally confessed to his love for her, and then Lancelot had almost thrown any hopes of those out of the window. Even so, the ever-present pain of knowing that nothing could ever come of this secret had all-too frequently held his tongue still when in her presence.

The Prince sighed softly before he realized that he had been sketching a picture of her on the back of a scroll covered in present tense conjugations. He was about to scrawl over the piece when he stopped himself, abruptly distracted, enraptured by how well he had captured the subtle vivaciousness hidden in her evocative eyes, and his uncanny rendition of the pleasantly crooked lines of her mouth. With a mesmerized smile, he drew a quick frame around the sketch interspersed with gillyflowers- her favourite- before writing out her name underneath in his best handwriting: Guinevere.

A knock at his door broke him out of his reverie; he started violently, spilling a nearby pot of ink all over his table. Cursing, he grabbed a nearby tatty square of red cloth to clean up whilst allowing the visitor to enter.

It was her.

He dropped the cloth wordlessly, his lips curving up in real pleasure borne of her mere presence, and she, who had been cripplingly nervous and uncomfortable about entering his chambers, dropped her restless fingers, a ghost of a smile replicated on her face.

"Hello, Guinevere."

"Good morning, sire." Before he could protest in a hurt voice about her formality, she quickly added; "Is there anything you require?"

"No," he replied quietly, but as she turned to leave, he summoned her back. "You may stay a while… nonetheless…"

She seemed surprised at that proposition, which piqued him again as he sought for another way to win her trust. However, she broke the silence for him.

"I am not really here to get you anything," she admitted softly; "I do not really have anything to do at present, and I thought of you, and um…"

"You thought of me?" he repeated in delighted astonishment- because he had seen it; the sign he had been longing for, right there, shining out of the languid expression in her eyes. Love. She felt it too… for him. He sat, frozen in disbelief as his scattered brain struggled to comprehend what he had seeing, what had become real in just one beautiful phrase: "I thought of you" with a deliberate, and special enunciation of the pronoun that could only be described as…love. Real love, with no limits, pre-conditions or superficiality. He stared at her in wonder, disbelief and happiness, conveying all of what he wanted to her, revelling in how she relaxed, smiling back at him and walking forward until she stood in front of the Prince, separated only by his desk.

She bowed her head momentarily. "I hope… well, you know that it is hard… I want to show you… well, never mind."

He did mind, and in response, rose, and walked over to join her, gently entwining one of her fingers with his. They stared at each other in adoring curiosity mixed with a sprinkle of trepidation, a fear of rejection from the other that would never come.

"Sh-should we…?" she whispered as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing her eager body to his muscled frame. He could hear, feel how her heart raced, sure that his was reacting in very much the same way.

"I want to… don't you?"

He knew the answer before he even asked her, before she leaned upwards and kissed him straight on the lips, sliding a hand behind his neck, beckoning him closer to apply more urgency and pressure to the kiss. She wanted to feel all of those plush, rich lips, wanted them to carelessly plunder hers and mark them for himself. She wanted to be his in every way that she dared ask for, so she pressed herself even closer to him, and opened her mouth further, her fingers lost in his hair, inviting him to plunge his lips further into the warm cavern of her mouth… It was so out of place, and yet so right, as if they were long lost pieces of a jigsaw that were now fitted together. She moaned in satisfaction before taking a chance and sliding her tongue into his mouth. Now, she was playing with fire, propelling the kiss to a far more intimate level that would no longer allow for them to deny or repress their love for one another any more. He pulled back a little in surprise at her boldness before the delicious sensation drew him back to their tight embrace, and he returned her probe with equal enthusiasm, showing her new delights he had learned by virtue of conversations with the Knights at the tavern, weaving his tongue around hers, diving as far as he could before partially withdrawing which made her squirm in delight and do the same to him, and it was so intoxicating, and suddenly they were both insatiable, craving insane amounts of this scandalous contact, eyes turned from heavily-lidded to shut completely as their minds were overtaken and drowned by forceful rush of desire; there was nothing else to see, feel or do except taste each other, taste, taste and taste again.

"Arthur?!"

The couple sprang apart only to see Magnus and Uther standing in the doorway, staring at them in outrage.

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**NEXT TIME:** No matter how bad Freya's day was, Merlin was always there...

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Not so tame now, huh? This is my favourite of the series so far, if I do say so myself...


	5. Romantic Kiss

**Prompt #5: Romantic Kiss**

**Featuring: Freya/Merlin**

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She would never understand why he cared so deeply for her, a stray waif with neither hope nor prospects in a world that had been geared against her, that had hated her kind, determined to hunt her to extinction.

Even after her resurrection, when the trade-off for the relinquishment of her curse were alarmingly regular bouts of fever and to fill the nights, horrible nightmares, occasional spasms, he had never deserted her; his loving kindness remained the same in the man who had pledged to stand by her unconditionally. Try as she might, she could not recall a single good thing that she had done that Fate should deem her worthy enough to deserve Merlin's limitless selflessness and magnanimity, yet as she walked to the Physician's Chambers after a gruelling day in the Castle Sculleries, she knew that he would come for her, ready with his sweet embrace, gentle kisses and those hands that held hers in a grip that was a promise, as if he had sworn fealty to her, vowing never to leave her alone in the world in the way that the tragic circumstances of her childhood had. She could already envision those wondrous, ethereal eyes staring right into her fragile heart as if she were the most precious jewel in the whole world, as if she was the most special, beautiful person in the whole of the five kingdoms. He was in love with her; she knew that, but she did not know why. All that she knew was that without him, she would surely be lost.

Freya had not considered such an alternative before she met Merlin, but then again, she had never heard of kindness and love, let alone experienced it. She had never been aware that she wanted it, had never imagined that she might crave the feeling of being important to somebody. Now that Merlin had shown her these new feelings, she never wished to let go of them; he was her lifeline, her escape from the torment of her soul, the bleakness of her existence, the lingering, murky shadows of times past. There was nothing that she could give him in return; life had robbed her of any material possessions, but he had never asked her for anything more than she allow him to care for her, give her what he believed that she deserved. If that was all that was required of her in order to be treated as if she was worth something, then she was more than happy to give Merlin whatever he desired.

Today, she had been on the verge of entering Gaius' chambers when she caught sight of him walking towards her, smiling his angelic, heart-warming smile that made her want to return it, even if her sufferings for the day had sunk her further into the gaping bowels of depression; she wanted to simply run into his arms and never let go of him, she wanted to cry, bewildered once again about the reasoning behind him loving her. Freya never showed the instability of her emotions to the outside world; she simply took a breath to steady her frantic heartbeat, and walked towards him, eyes fixed on his, never ceasing to move until she felt warm, strong arms encircle her waist, drawing her so close to his body, and only then would she allow her aching head repose, nestled on his dependable shoulder. Her arms locked themselves comfortably about his neck and she could feel a sigh of relief escape her lips, a sigh that spoke of a woman who had survived another miserable day, and had found her home at last. Home it was, with his hands forging a soothing trail up and down her back, pressing her body against the heat of his all the while. She could feel soft lips in her hair, and then she was face to face with him, fingers intertwined with his, flustered and swallowing down a massive lump in her throat.

"You look so tired, my love," he noted, cupping her face in his hands, concern written over his face. "Isn't there anything I can do to ease your fevers?"

She shook her head in a resignation that had long been acquired when she had been ingrained to believe that she meant nothing.

"No… but at least it is not… I won't die…" she trailed off when she saw how he winced slightly at that comment, his eyes filled with a kind of sorrowful fear- he was probably reminiscing over her previous death. Clearing her mind, she changed tack: "Don't worry, Merlin; I am fine." It was a lie- her daily pains showed- but it was one that managed to halt the inevitable probing questions after her welfare and what he could do about it (always what he could do for her), how he could make her life as comfortable as possible- and it was so tempting; he always wanted to make things better instantly, even if he had lost his youthful naiveté since she had last met him, the lingering traces of eager hopefulness for a better future that he had saved for her were so endearing, but she could not allow herself to fall prey to powerful illusions, for misfortune was to be her bane as long as she lived, and she knew it better than he did.

"I… I feel so useless…" he struggled for a moment. "I… you are the only, well… if anything happened to you, I would be… If there was ever anything that would help you, I would… you know?"

She could say nothing in response to such devotion; she could only show him. She could only close the gap between them, and tentatively scrape her lips against his, could only hope for him to reciprocate, and he never disappointed her, returning the fleeting contact, sending delicious shivers through her mouth, her stomach, and suddenly she was overcome once again by that dazzling rush of love for him: she loved him, yes she did, and she had to be nearer and closer to him, slender arms pulling him to her and her mouth seeking his again for firmer, more assured contact, lips pressing tenderly against his, conveying that urgent message. His head leant closer to hers as he returned the contact, arms locking around her, fingers lost in her dark tresses. He could feel her wet eyes and cheeks, but he was probably crying too, weighed down by all the heady emotions the kiss induced… It was beautiful, it was passionate, it was revealing, it was gentle, and that was all they needed for that moment. They just needed that one instance when they could forget their troubles and sink into the alternate reality they had created, where a man was not burdened by responsibility, and a woman did not spend every waking hour crippled by pain… why couldn't they have it all, if only for the relatively small time that their lips were upon each other's?

All too soon it had to end; he had evening chores that could not wait, and though she might not be able to bear the hours she spent without it, she could not keep him for longer, except with a quick, chaste kiss.

Then she walked to her own chamber for another sleepless night.

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**NEXT TIME:**Arthur has been drinking too much, and mortifies Merlin...

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Gosh, that was depressing, wasn't it? Go and read something funny.


	6. Unexpected Kiss

**Prompt #6: Unexpected Kiss**

**Featuring: Arthur/Merlin**

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Whatever had been inside the two bloody-red bottles of wine that he had swiped from the tavern, it had wreaked havoc upon Arthur's testosterone.

He was still reeling from the after-effects two days later, having grabbed one bottle the afternoon before to take a quick drink after a stressful morning- and there it was again, the incessant fizzling in the lower part of his stomach that made itself manifest in several untimely elongations that he had had to rush behind his screen to hide from his manservant. The drink was delicious, but he really could not afford to be... excited in this way, not now in the middle of the day, when he was expected to attend three afternoon meetings, not to mention Merlin's constant presence.

Merlin...

Arthur licked his mouth involuntarily. Gods, the boy looked particularly good today... Who would have known that the twiggy lad who had stumbled and tripped into his life five years ago had filled out? (That damn drink!) The King sat straighter in his chair, casting his eyes back to a scroll covered in various complex figures. Think, man, think! Oh, it was useless; Merlin came to the table holding the rogue wine bottle with a querying expression on his face.

"Sire... have you been drinking this?"

The King lost no time in lying; he could see from the way Merlin was regarding him (as if he was an interesting specimen under a magnifying glass) that whatever the boy might have to say did not bode well for him. "No, of course not!"

"Is that why it has been left open in your chambers?"

"Alright, I have!"

"You do realize what this drink is, don't you?" Merlin cleared his throat. "Or rather, what it does..."

Arthur flicked his quill against his inkpot impatiently. "What?"

The manservant's cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes bowed in modesty as he explained in the most prolix and circumspect terms exactly what it was that Arthur had been guzzling for the past few days. When his screed had come to a close, they were both blushing.

"I-I did not know..." (Gods, the boy looked good today).

"I will get rid of it; nobody has to know."

"Yes, yes; of course!"

Well, that problem was sorted, Arthur reasoned to himself as he refocused on the sums in front of him. After a while, his mind failed to register anything else except for the importance of completing his work for the day, and this state of concentration held him in its grip for the next few hours.

Then, he had to stand up for a rest... spelling his doom. For as he crossed over to his bed, he noticed a cork sticking from underneath, and it was only when he had yanked it out, fully intending to give Merlin a piece of his mind about his lackadaisical attitude to cleaning that he realized what he was holding: the second bottle of that wine again. Staring at the tempting dark contents, he could feel his blood hissing and popping again and before he could chastise himself for his actions, he had wrenched the cork out, tipping an imprudent draught of the beverage down his eager throat.

Oh... that felt so good. How could he have denied himself in this way? Had he been insane? Why deprive himself of this luscious, warm goodness that set his body aflame and made everything pulse in the most pleasurable manner possible?

"Sire? What are you drinking...?! I thought I just got rid of that bottle-"

Arthur spun around, a little unsteadily, flushed with the waves of pleasure dancing inside him.

"I had two," he replied in a throaty voice. "And it tastes good, Merlin. Really good."

"My Lord, I-"

"Shut up." Arthur studied him with dilated pupils, an openly suggestive smirk on his face. "I drunk it... and now I am going to drink you..." Before his manservant could either argue or try to buy time as the King's real meaning dawned on him he felt himself being shoved back against the nearest wall to the door (of all places), and then his sight went black as moist lips roughly sought out his, moans poured down his throat and hands roamed underneath his cotton shirt. He gasped, trying to wriggle free, and was rewarded with a giant sucking kiss on his neck, whilst inquisitive fingers tugged at the laces to his breeches. After that, he could not remember anything else amongst the gratuitous kissing and groping on the part of a strongly aroused, insatiable King, yet no sooner had he accepted the futility of resistance than he found himself eye to eye with the King again, who was now looking as bewildered as he (a little too late).

"Care to explain...?!" Merlin demanded in a breathy tone.

Arthur seemed to be seeing him for the first time, and sprang back, mouth hanging open.

"The-the drink...!"

The manservant had to smile there. "I did warn you, my Lord, but-"

"Its- controlling me-!"

Merlin dropped his arms and repressed a rebellious snicker even given the extraordinary circumstances; he couldn't help it, the utter mortification on the King's usually self-important features was highly amusing.

"Are you laughing at me?!" Arthur thundered, taking a menacing step forward.

"No! No, of course not!"

"Good. This- _never_- happened; got that? Destroy that bottle now! Mention a word to anyone and I will castrate you slowly with a rusty, jagged knife and rip out your fingernails one by one."

"Lovely. See you later, sire!"

Arthur leaned back against the oaken door, blood squirting at an alarming rate through his body, and sighed. His hand mindlessly unlaced his breeches before delving inside.

He was just going to have to imagine the rest of their time together.

No he wasn't!

That DAMN drink!

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Of course, Mithian would vigorously deny any kind of attraction to Merlin...

* * *

Now, that was definitely slash... LOL!


	7. In The Rain

**Prompt #7: In The Rain**

**Featuring: Mithian/Merlin**

* * *

She didn't mind that her fine, elaborately decorated cotton dress was getting completely ruined in the downpour outside. It was an insult to her maidservant Elizabeth's night-long toil, and she had been delighted with it when presented to her just a week ago, but somehow, all that was no longer important. Overheard the sky growled like a ferocious, ravenous beast, clouds emptying bucket-loads of rain onto the Earth with a vengeance, beating at her hair, her skin, seeping through her dress right to her very bones, making her shiver and wince in pain with each whiplash. Yet still, she drove on, through the mudslide that was the winding roads through Camelot's lower town, determined satisfy her worries.

Merlin had been carrying out an errand for Arthur and had not returned for the past two hours. The King himself had been too busy embroiled in tense meetings about the budget to notice his servant's unusually lengthy disappearance, and the rest of the Castle were equally pre-occupied in keeping indoors till the worst of the rain had subsided at least. Mithian, however, was overcome with worry for the serving boy. Though she had been one of the few to see that he was a deceptive young man, a master of playing by appearances whilst hiding an unfailingly brave warlock underneath, she could not help yielding to her in-built predilection to doubt his sense of self-preservation. It was horrible outside; he should be keeping warm indoors like everybody else... not running about putting his health in danger. Yes, she did like him very much; he had this insidious way of creeping into your heart little by little. She could not fault him with any particularly serious shortcoming, not even when he had been less than welcoming to her on her first visit- she could see how his attitude seemed to fit him as well as an oversized jacket, how his reserved manner seemed more apologetically mistrustful rather than borne of spite.

Now, after he had saved her from Morgana's wicked wiles, they had patched things up, always longing for her next trip to Camelot, telling herself that it was for the scenery, Arthur and Guinevere's hospitality, but knowing deep in her heart that all she desired first of all was to see those stunning... no, nice blue eyes. Not stunning- where did she get that from? Mithian paused briefly, scanning the horizon for a moment. Where was he, she thought, panicking. Had he gotten lost? Had he been hurt? Oh please let him not be hurt, she pleaded to whichever spirit was listening, picking up her pace once again, ignoring her shuddering bones and numb fingers- please, please let him be alright. As she flitted through a small field, she wondered when she had become so invested in Merlin's welfare that she would go as far as brave the worst excesses of nature to find him. Friendship, she reminded herself sharply, and the rebellious thought bowed apologetically and vanished. But she wanted it to come back. It had felt... strangely attractive, this new avenue of possibility that had been nagging at her for the past few days...

No, it hadn't! And there was nothing more to be said. All she needed to do was find Merlin, and take him back to the Castle. If only she could catch sight of him sometime before she grew even more frantic than she was now!

A figure came into sight- too large to be him, but she was thankful all the same. With an unexpected burst of energy, she ran full pelt towards him, hailing him as loudly as her hoarse throat would allow.

"Young Lady- Princess, even!" the farmer cried out in horror as a drowned cat ran up to him, almost knocking him over. "What in God's name are you doing, flying about like this? I mean that most respectfully, of-"

"Damn respect!" she cried, gripping his arms desperately. "You have to help me; I am looking for a boy- a young man. Name is Merlin- blue eyes, neckerchief..."

"Oh, the King's manservant?" the farmer cut in, a hint of affection in his voice.

"Have you seen him?!" she demanded in a shrill tone, shaking him with an unexpected strength from such slender arms. "Tell me you have! I can't find him anywhere!"

"Yes, I seen him- just along that far road, there, look-"

Mithian did not even wait to thank him properly, only shouting something indiscernible over her shoulder as she dashed towards the afore-mentioned road, yelling his name at the lone, drenched figure walking along, shivering in front of her. Finally, she caught sight of his eyes, and that familiar fizzling in her stomach started up again, but this time, it was much stronger- more like a wave than the tiny drizzle of before. Whatever it was, she was running towards him, throwing her arms around his shoulders, finding that her eyes were not merely wet from the rain...

And then somehow... she was kissing him, straight on the lips, arms squeezing him in unprecedented relief. One hand reached up to stroke his hair, the other to pull him even closer. She could feel him start in astonishment, yet the dizzying wave of pleasure did not come until she felt his lips part underneath hers and know for sure that he felt the same way about her. At that point, it didn't matter that the rain was drowning them or that there was a promise of thunder in the air, or that the farmer was staring at the couple in disbelief, muttering about "young women and their fancies", or that at that precise moment, an extremely worried King Arthur was sending out his men to look for both serving boy and Princess.

It was just her... and Merlin. She almost laughed as she realized that this was the solid truth that had been evading her for all the months they had known each other. It hadn't been the many eligible Princes at the Court of Nemeth, it had not even been Arthur Pendragon... it had been a serving boy with little status but such a big heart.

Later, Arthur made sure to look another way when he found Mithian holding Merlin's hand as they walked back to the Castle.

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Morgana has to admit that Agravaine does come with some benefits...

* * *

Cute, no? Or really, just... no? Or... meh?


	8. Neck Kiss

**Prompt #8: Neck Kiss**

**Featuring: Morgana/Agravaine**

* * *

It was a customary habit of Morgana's that she often spent an indefinite number of hours scouring her spell books and potion lists, not to supplement any wonderful scheme she might have devised, or to research the effects of any nasty concoction she might have discovered, but simply to sink the bowels of her mind into magical study. Morgana never failed to be amazed by the sheer scope and power of magic, though she had known that she was a High Priestess for quite some time now. Nonetheless, when she came upon a new spell, hex or charm that she had not known before, she would be foolish to deny the distinct flutter of excitement in her stomach as she hastened to try it out on the nearest inanimate object, or a harmless creature outside. Very frequently, her mind would turn to Arthur, and how she might make him suffer with her latest trick. On occasion, she might send for her spy Lord Agravaine to discuss endless possibilities, unimaginably wicked schemes and crafty paths of action.

Speaking of Lord Agravaine, he was supposed to be coming tonight. Morgana glanced up from her book, noting the shadows on the walls of her home had grown longer in the few hours she had been reading. That meant that the close of day had passed and the cold of night was approaching. Morgana preferred the night-time. The black shroud beset with glittering stars was the perfect cover for a fugitive woman such as her- the whole world closed their eyes once the pinkish hues of dusk had melded into the indigo blanket of darkness. She smiled a little and rose, pulled on her cloak, and headed out of doors to see how the outside world fared. There was a slight breeze in the air that made the hems of her clothes flutter slightly, and the squirrel family that loved to scurry around her door had dashed off into the trees as soon as she had stepped out. Morgana noticed all of this, for Morgana's eyes missed nothing.

She decided to take an amble around the forest area as it seemed particularly quiet. Usually, with Arthur's patrol guards roaming the vicinity until the small hours, this was a risk she would rather not take, but tonight, she had no aversion to the idea. Morgana took a little known path that led in an arc back to her house, but was furnished with several devious hiding places should she come upon any evildoers on her way. Contingency plans were Morgana's forte. And perhaps she might sneak up on her chief spy as she flitted through the trees. He hated that- which was why she continued to do it. Annoying Agravaine was amusing. Morgana snickered quietly underneath her breath as she recalled all the tricks she liked to play on Arthur's Uncle, her hands brushing against crisp, cool leaves, her eyes scanning her surroundings keenly before she made her next move. Morgana was a calculating soul who knew the value of having her back covered at all times- even when the person covering it was doing so for an entirely different purpose...

The High Priestess smirked again, remembering what happened a few nights back. She knew that he had so badly wanted to give it to her there, but she would not give in at all until he was absolutely bursting and she was surprised to find herself strongly aroused by this. If she was telling the truth, his thrusts had been extremely painful, which had augmented the experience, and she had had a bucket-load of difficulty sitting down properly in the aftermath. Not that she showed that to him, of course, ordering him to go brusquely as if the whole experience had been some mild biological display rather than a liaison she would very much like to repeat in the future- providing he was a lot gentler.

So... Agravaine might, for all his frequent displays of incompetence, possess some kind of talent where those affairs were concerned. He might not have the wild aggression of Helios, or Merlin's intriguing looks, but he certainly did know how to take time with her and were she be alarmingly more honest than usual, she might rate him very, very highly for his pains. Morgana was smiling a predatory smile now as she crept stealthily around the forest, scaring the tiny woodland creatures away with her dark cloak and chalky skin from which emerald eyes flashed dangerously. Perhaps... news about Camelot could wait... the way she was feeling now, there would be hell to pay if she could not find a quick release. In fact, she would go and seek him out right now.

She did not have far to look; a black figure dismounted from his charcoal stallion, thankfully, not facing her. With her breathing accelerating, Morgana inched forward until she stood right behind him.

"Welcome, Agravaine," she purred. As usual, he started violently and exclaimed in annoyance, whilst she discarded his protests.

"Well, my Lady?"

Truth be told, the deceitful Uncle found the smile on his patron's face frightening to say the least.

"Well, it is time to serve your mistress," she replied smoothly, inching forward. "And serve her well."

A sweaty silence followed as Morgana's words danced in the chilly night air and Agravaine felt the usual sparkling stirrings of wild desire explode in his body... more so when Morgana closed the gap between them and brushed her mouth along his.

"W-When?" he stuttered, itching to run his hands all over her with wild abandon.

The answer was the sinfully delicious sensation of her lips on his neck- not once, but twice and once again. He felt light-headed with lust, but still he showed restraint, enjoying Morgana's contribution. When she finally pulled away, he could see that behind her pretence, she was as aroused as he.

"We can start now."

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Being chased by bandits leads to a compromising situation for Merlin and Guinevere...

* * *

Yep, I know; you guys all hate this pairing...


	9. Collarbone Kiss

**Prompt #9: Collarbone Kiss**

**Featuring: Merlin/Guinevere**

* * *

Anybody who swims through an icy river in the middle of winter cannot be the smartest person in the world.

Guinevere and Merlin were not dumb, but their collectively freezing hands had been forced in the matter. They had surely not expecting to be chased by bandits as they went out for a leisurely walk in the forest one piercingly frigid winter's afternoon. It should have occurred to them as they meandered through skeletal trees and cracked brittle twigs that lay strewn on the ground that the cold was no deterrent for bloodthirsty criminals who lurked even behind the naked trees, grim eyes kept peeled for any prey that might be foolish enough to stray into their nefarious traps.

Today, it transpired that the three burly and most-definitely armed troublemakers were going to have a field day as a laughing young man dressed in the attire of a manservant accompanied by an exceptionally comely young woman wandered into view. From what Janus and Og could hear, both were engaged in a deep discussion about fat nobles, discourse being accompanied by some true to life impressions of said dignitaries which both obviously found highly amusing. Well, Janus thought gleefully, they wouldn't be chuckling when they were ambushed by two men with daggers inserted between their teeth! He winked at Og who was snickering hysterically from behind his own vantage points (another tree close by) and drew out an unholy spear, swiped it across his tongue and took aim.

Fast forwarding to the present, two shivering, drowned cats were trudging towards the Castle holding hands to share a shred of warmth. It was dark now, not to mention snowing heavily and even Guinevere, who usually made off home around this time was happy to let Merlin lead the way to a airy Castle chamber with a bloody fireplace that she wouldn't have to stoke this time... Somehow, they managed to trip their way up the courtyard steps and they were indoors, ignoring the curious regard of the statue guards that were eternally positioned in one pose. Guinevere took the opportunity to remind Merlin of the blindingly obvious:

"H-Hurry, M-M-Merlin..."

He took the hint and hastened his steps, almost dragging her alongside him. Magic was of great help at this point though it had been slightly weakened by the cold. Eventually they found a room that was pleasantly warm and flung themselves inside, slamming the door to lock in all that heat. Finally; they were to remain in human and not icicle form. Great. After the euphoria of discovering that they were to live came the realization that jumping in from a harsh cold to distinct warmth was painful and more inconveniently, dangerous. With a gasp of horror, they appraised each other's blueberry lips, pale drawn skin and unmoving limbs. Violent shivering. Bad... very bad.

"W-We h-have to g-get out of these clothes," Merlin pointed out eventually. "T-Too cold."

"Y-You're t-telling m-me?" Guinevere quipped lightly and they smiled weakly at each other. Terrible jokes weren't really going to solve their problems but everyone knew that was how the friends got along. When she had begun to defrost, the serving girl limped over to the cupboards and winced as frost-bit fingers prised open the wardrobe doors. Not a single garment was in sight. "N-no clothes to c-change into."

"N-Naked?" Merlin queried, already knowing the answer even before he uttered the question.

"B-birthday suit," Guinevere affirmed and turned unsteadily to smile at Merlin. "D-Don't tell Arth-ur."

"N-Noted."

They both stood in front of each other bashfully. It was inevitable, and the only way they would avoid catching cold, but it was still... them, which threw the spoke of awkwardness into the wheel. It would have been astonishing to the sensible that they should even have been considering their reputation before their own health, but this was Merlin and Guinevere; the normal rules did not apply.

"S-So..." Merlin ventured after a moment of blushes and pointed stares in any direction other than the visibly and oh-so sinfully comfortable bed and each other; "W-Who...?"

"M-M-My corset and k-kirtle t-takes s-some t-time to untie..."

"I g-guess that I will h-have to h-help you, then."

"Well d-duh!"

Merlin made a mess of the whole job, as could only be expected, but sometime during the "n-next c-century" as Guinevere so eloquently put it, she was in her shift, which could easily be pulled off after issuing a stuttered death threat to her friend should he peek as she wriggled into bed. He peeked- but only because she accidentally elbowed him in the arm in lifting the sodden material over her head. That was the night that Merlin learned Guinevere did not, contrary to his previous conjectures, wear padding. Likewise, Merlin made Guinevere swear not to shoot a curious glance in his direction as he shimmied out of breeches that clung to his legs like a second skin. She peeked- this time deliberately. That was the night that Guinevere learned appearances can be deceptive. Armed with this enlightening knowledge, she lay back quickly in bed before he could look up, but she was smiling. As Merlin gingerly climbed into bed with her (a difficult feat when his hands were preoccupied in obscuring the goods, as Guinevere also thought it prudent to point out), he got the impression that she had ignored his warnings.

"Y-You looked!"

When she realized that her smiled would not be repressed, she sighed and assented. "Not b-bad for a s-skinny one, Merlin."

"G-Gwen!"

"I-It's a c-compliment!"

"M-My p-privacy..."

"F-Forget t-that unless you w-want to f-freeze to d-death... we are g-going to h-have to g-get closer..."

When he did not immediately respond, she rolled her eyes and pulled him into her arms with surprising strength. It was uncomfortable at first as they tried to wriggle into more convenient positions, but after a few minutes, they secretly conceded that this did feel rather good... rather cosy, in fact. That was when she learnt the hard way that Merlin's collarbones were sharp. Deadly sharp. Especially when she knocked her cheek on one that jutted out at an obscene angle.

"Ouch! Y-you're a hazard, M-Merlin!"

"T-tha's what you g-get for peeking at my goods," he murmured sleepily with an impudent grin.

"Y-you looked at m-mine... I'm n-not w-whinging about it..." Guinevere could feel her eyes grow heavy and a small yawn escape her mouth as the shared body heat started to do its work. Far away, she heard a laugh- probably his. The world started to grow very warm and dark; sleep was overtaking her. When she shifted her head up it was to murmur: "Nice collarbones," and then Merlin felt her mouth brush them gently a couple of times before he too, succumbed to sleep.

When they woke up the next day to see Arthur Pendragon glaring at them with barely concealed rage and jealousy from his vantage point at the furthest bedpost, casually swinging a sword by his side with a deliberate lack of finesse, they knew they were in deep shit.

* * *

**NEXT TIME: **Guinevere discovers Arthur's talent for drawing...

* * *

Yes, I know; you only see Merlin and Guinevere as friends- SO DO I. This is only meant to be taken in a friendly/awkward/fluffy way. You will note that there is a hint of Arwen. Merwen here are friends.


	10. Anatomical Kiss

**Prompt No #10: Anatomical Kiss**

**Featuring: Arthur/Guinevere**

* * *

Queen Guinevere was sifting through her careful notes regarding the progressive bands of levies on the quality of imports at the Southern border.

She was missing several sheets, and it appeared that they had gotten lost in her husband's chaotic pile of paperwork. Eventually, her quick eye sought out the truant missives and she scooped them up, prepared to work on them elsewhere. It was only as she was on the brink of putting ink to paper that she discovered dozens of ink doodles scrawled into every inch of spare parchment the artist could find. The identity of this childish cartoonist? One Arthur Pendragon Rex Camelot- scrawled in arrogantly flowing letters at the bottom. The doodles were mainly of the bitingly satirical mould and upon closer inspection, the Queen concluded that they were a vice for her husband to vent his anger with the countless meetings and assemblies he was obliged to attend. On one corner where she had been calculating the kingdom's revenue from the cloth trade with Lot's merchants, he had drawn a caricature of said Lot with an exaggerated nose, pot-belly and legs that resembled twigs. The Queen pressed her lips together firmly when she realized the giggle that she had heard had come from herself.

That was NOT funny; it was undiplomatic and completely inappropriate.

None of these mini portraits was amusing in the slightest. Master Bates's (Royal Milliner) name had been changed to "Masturbates", with an accompanying doodle that made the Queen gasp in scandalised disbelief to cover up the fact that she was snickering quietly. Not funny. Lord Berry's name had bee manipulated to form "Lord Babble Berry", with another picture showing him talking non-stop. Not a single chuckle escaped her lips, she convinced herself as her eye roved over a caricature of Gwaine snoring loudly surrounded by several tankards of ale, or of Merlin cuddling a rabbit above a strap line saying "Ga Ga Goo Goo". Wait... that shout of laughter had DEFINITELY not been hers. She found Lord Ethel manipulated into an old woman with drooping breasts named Lord Etheldreda and Freya was reincarnated as a giant strawberry. Amongst repressed chortles, the Queen made a mental note to remind Arthur that where jokes were concerned, the shy druid girl was strictly off-limits. Gaius was reinvented entirely as a ferocious eyebrow and for the cherry on the cake, Elyan was copiously nicknamed "The Brother Who Would Beat Me With An Anvil If He Knew What I Think About His Sister".

Guinevere spluttered with a distinct lack of finesse after reading that. Sooo... that was funny. (Hilarious). Not. And it had given her an idea...

When Arthur strode into his chambers with his usual braggadocio, it was to find his wife sitting primly at their dining table, idly flipping an apple in one hand. She smirked at him suggestively, which was more than enough to increase Arthur's blood flow.

"So...husband," she began that imperious tone that Arthur found so irresistible and yet slightly frightening at the same time; "It seems you have a penchant for doodling on state papers." She found his corresponding blush and pout exceptionally adorable.

"I deny everything," her husband replied instantly.

She laughed condescendingly, still juggling the apple in one hand and dramatically withdrew one folded scroll from the cleavage of her dress, watching the King swallow nervously as she did so. "Ah, too bad your name is written at the bottom, then. The Council should find this rather interesting, this caricature of King Lot and Lord Ethel..." She pretended to rise, making for the door, almost laughing when Arthur blocked her.

"Forged handwriting!" he blurted out desperately, "Sabotage! Absolutely nothing to do with me!"

Guinevere chuckled and sat back onto the table-top. "I have decided that I want an official portrait," she announced airily, apparently changing topic. Arthur's shoulders relaxed and he smiled more naturally. Ah, a request from his lovely wife- this was the game she was playing. Well, that should have been easy enough...

"Consider it done!"

Another tinkling laugh. "I'll consider it done... when it's done."

Arthur rolled his eyes though he chuckled too. "No need to be so cranky! I will procure an artist this very minute."

"Oh, I won't need one," she interrupted as he actually walked back towards the door. She never failed to feel flattered at how he regularly vowed to move heaven and earth just to please her. It wasn't a trait she encouraged, but she couldn't lie and claim that his devotion didn't make her feel loved like no other. Or that she wouldn't do the same for him... On a tangent, she considered how appealing his mussed up strands of golden hair were when cast across his forehead in wild abandon, or how his mouth was forever puckered into a juicy pout, or how those wonderful hands sent heated waves down her body when applied in the correct places... Blinking, she refocused on the task at hand. "I think you will do just nicely."

For once, the King was actually modest: "I, um... only do... ink drawings, really... Not appropriate..."

"Oh, but I want you to draw me."

"Now? In that dress? That will take ages to finish!"

"I won't be wearing this dress. I will only be wearing this apple..."

"Guinevere?! I... oh god..."

Arthur scrambled to shut the door before turning back and gulping. Blood shuddered through his veins, making them swell, threatening to burst. Something was roaring in his ears. His hands were definitely clammy. Down below... no, it would be better to pretend that part didn't exist. He licked parched lips as his scattered mind desperately endeavoured to rearrange itself to confront the situation. Damn it- where was Arthur, the decisive warrior King in a situation like this? Obviously he had been kidnapped and replaced with Arthur the weak-willed, lovesick and definitely aroused young man who was speechless because his wife had just...

"Well?" the Queen murmured, walking backwards to lounge on a nearby couch in a position that was so scandalous that the King's eyes hurt. "Get your ink and parchment, then!"

"I... yes, ink and parchment, yes," he rasped. "Very good, my Lady."

Briefly, Arthur considered reminding his wife that drawing required concentration. This... position had pan fried his brain. His hands were shaking slightly. He was, for all intents and purposes, out of control. Worse, Guinevere knew exactly what she was doing to him, and refused to allow him any form of reprieve, only augmenting his angst with seductive chuckles and slight shifts of position, wriggling around on the plush, soft couch artfully in ways that vaunted her assets and had her husband's eyes rolling around in his skull. Somehow, with an inhuman effort, Arthur managed to get the job done - wobbly lines transformed into elegant curves and at the end of it all, when he had slammed the image down and rushed away for a glass of water and a handful of grapes, he had produced an uncanny rendition of the Queen, who pounced on it immediately, impressed with the result.

"Very nice. Such work... deserves a reward." She sashayed over to where he sat at the table, forcibly turning his head until it was level with her chest and pressed it against her. Arthur's resolve finally snapped and his lips devoured her breast. When Guinevere felt his sensuous mouth running along her hips and any other soft place he could find, she knew he was feeling particularly greedy. Good.

"God, calm down, Arthur!" she groaned.

"All good artists appreciate anatomy," he murmured between scorching kisses.

Somehow, the royal couple knew they were not going to get a lot of official work done that afternoon. And Merlin knew that for a fact when he passed by their chambers an hour later.

Blushing, he ran past their door blocking his ears.

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Mithian ran to Merlin- and found out something else instead...

* * *

I had to do some reinventing to avoid repetition- some pairings are going to appear twice, by the way...


	11. Soothing Kiss

**Prompt #11: Soothing Kiss**

**Featuring: Mithian/Merlin**

* * *

The emerald green eyes of a snake set against a backdrop of an unearthly murmuring of incantations flashed at her.

There was a malevolent hissing in the velvety darkness. She tried to move her head, and a violent pain assaulted her neck; she tried to cry out only to realize that a tight, filthy gag was stretch tight across her mouth... and worse, it was growing tighter with every harsh, ragged breath that she took... Soon, her meagre air supply would be choked off forever. She couldn't move. She couldn't see anything except for those horrible eyes and nothing else was audible apart from the heaps of spells being chanted in the background, over and over... She could feel her saliva against the parched corners of her mouth as the gag all but choked her, allowing the tiniest wisps of air to penetrate it and enter her mouth. Her eyes rolled around in her skull; she was losing consciousness. One more stretch and she would-

Mithian woke up with a strangled cry, sweating heavily and clutching her throat as terrified tears coursed down her cheeks. Her body shuddered and one convulsive hand fisted her quilt, scrunching it between tremulous fingers. This was the fourth consecutive night that she had woken in a state of shock and had consequently been unable to get back to sleep for hours afterwards. The King and Queen had been very considerate, understanding that her ordeal had taken a lot out of her, but even they had been surprised with her perpetual state of exhaustion and random bouts of tears, though given the circumstances, it was perfectly understandable. Perhaps the King, being so used to Morgana's wiles, was better at recovering from them. She clearly was not, though she would tell no one that she struggled through each day with the onerous memory of a burned wrist and a gnarled, twisted face haunting her thoughts every waking hour.

Today, those eyes had been particularly horrible. As Mithian's weeping subsided, she clambered out of bed and appraised herself in the mirror. Shaken, heavily dishevelled, sweaty yet shivering... So far away from the immaculate, cultured Princess she was supposed to be. She almost smiled at the marked contrast, but sadness soon washed back over her and tears welled into her eyes. Morgana. It was all her fault. That conniving, merciless witch... Mithian uncurled her fists from her sides as her hopeless anger dissipated. The plan had failed, and Arthur lived; Morgana had been defeated... for now, at least. But in her tortured nightmares, the High Priestess still lived and breathed, playing sick games with her just as she had done when Mithian had been her prisoner.

No, she wouldn't be going back to sleep tonight.

She moved over to the window and peered out. Midnight; everyone else in the Castle would be fast asleep. But suddenly, she longed for company, a kind face that would allay the shadow of death that she walked in. Her father would be no help; he was barely just getting by himself. Poor old man, she thought sadly. He might well be suffering more than her... yet she still didn't want to wake him up. There was no one else that she knew so well in the Castle, and there was absolutely no way that she was going to the King about this in the morning. That would surely be too late. So who?

Mithian poured herself a bowl of water and began to wash the sticky perspiration off the back of her neck, her forearms and underneath her shift. Wordlessly, she crept to the door and pulled it open. Padding silently through dim, chilly and spooky corridors, she suddenly recalled how Morgana had materialised from behind a pillar on that fateful night and burned her wrist... and how Merlin had-

Of course- she would go and find Merlin. He always knew how to comfort someone. It escaped her that he might well be asleep, but when she all but ran to Gaius' chambers, she found him flicking through what looked like a medical text until his eyes flashed gold and three vials were suddenly spinning in mid-air... Magic; Merlin had... magic? Under the very eye of his King? But- Mithian gasped in shock...

His dark head shot up and fright entered his eyes. for the first time, she saw a Merlin who was genuinely at a loss for what to do. And he was terrified... so, so terrified. Helpless tears filled his eyes and his mouth must have turned dry.

Suddenly, Mithian forgot her own pain and rushed inside to sit next to him. Without any explanation, she pulled him into her arms and whispered softly into his ridiculously oversized ears.

"Its alright, Merlin; I will not tell... Your secret is safe with me."

His arms were still rigid, even as his head rested on her shoulder. It seemed like the most natural thing for Mithian to press her lips to his with a soft soothing sound that might have had less to do with comforting Merlin than her finally realizing a long held desire. If she had looked down at him when she finally pulled away, she would have seen a lazy, delighted smile on Merlin's face. And when she finally told him what had been troubling her since Morgana's defeat, he stroked back her curls and kissed her back with a gentle intensity that made her feel distinctly dizzy.

There was a terrible thunderstorm the next day, and the Kingdom was in a sullen mood. So no one could understand why Mithian and Merlin kept smiling dreamily regardless.

The Queen of Camelot, however, was not blind and soon she was smiling too.

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Merlin didn't know that Morgana was lying... until it was too late...

* * *

More Merthian. Come to think of it, I could actually have included more conversation between the pair, but that kind of got eaten up by the big reveal...


	12. Haunting Kiss

**Prompt #12: Haunting Kiss**

**Featuring: Morgana/Merlin**

* * *

She was lying to him.

Even as she invited him to her snowy cot and locked her arms around his skinny frame, pressing eager kisses to a lean, pale neck and tracing endless lines through his delicately soft mane of hair... she was lying to him. She was truthful where the issue of some kind of attraction was concerned. Even after she had witnessed his horrible betrayal of her trust, she could hardly believe that her body was in the grip of some euphoric rush at the prospect of being in his arms again. Inhaling his intoxicating scent made her feel light-headed, which surely could not be good for her health. Indeed, she must be addicted to him, which spelt major trouble for the direction she had chosen to take. As she murmured unintelligible words into his neck, she reminded herself that should he ever find out about her defection, that would be it for their clandestine liaison.

Morgana had taken great care that this should not be so. She told herself that this was because she didn't want to end up in jail.

This was a lie.

As she slipped one excited hand under his turquoise tunic, she considered all 175 different death spells she had learnt whilst under Morgause's tutelage. Most of them were quick, but some were exquisitely long and were accompanied by the worst pain imaginable. When she finally had Uther at her mercy, Morgana knew she would enjoy the final task. Maybe she should kill Merlin, she thought as she loosened her shift to allow his wandering hands better access to her chest. After all, he did try to kill her with poison just as she had been so grateful to him for covering her back under Arthur's scrutiny. Even the very thought of his deeds was enough to hitch her breathing and produce a painful squeeze in her stomach. How could he...?

And yet she was pressing him to her body as if nothing had happened.

But she was still lying to him. Morgana may still have been a victim of her desires, and astonishingly, underneath it all, there was a resilient part of her that was not evil; it was a girl who had fallen in love with a manservant and was scared about her magic. That didn't make her assurances to Merlin any more truthful- she had not forgiven him. This... was merely a diversion, an itch, a swirling desire. That did not erase his betrayal of her. Neither could she forget the way he had thrown her aside when she had run to him specifically for confirmation about her magic, somethign which had plagued her existence though she had meant no harm.

Merlin would have to pay. But not now, because his graceful fingers were tracing fire over her skin.

Later. Later he would be sorry. Even if she could not bring herself to punish him directly, he would still be devastated to know her hatred for Camelot's royal line. Not Uther- she knew that he held the old man in scant regard... but Arthur. Yes, when she hurt Arthur, she assured herself whilst weaving their tongues together, then he would be humbled. There was no greater bond than that held between two friends. He would bend over backwards twice if it meant that Arthur would remain safe.

She was the traitor. But he wasn't to know that.

Instead, she told him that she had missed him in a voice that sounded suspiciously genuine. Best not to dwell on that. He repeated that he was glad to see her again, and though she reminded herself as harshly as possible that he might well be lying, nothing could explain away the abrupt jump-start of her heartbeat. If she clutched him tighter and applied more pressure to his sensuous lips, she was not aware of it- or did not wish to be. Too many falsehoods, she complaimed in her mind as he started to work nibbling kisses along her shoulders... maybe honesty might have been a better strategy where he was concerned. He was upright to the last t. If only it had been that easy for her. She almost envied him, had she not reminded herself of what he had forced her to do, him and the many others she had relied upon for unconditional love and support. But she pressed herself to him, bridging the nonexistent gap between writhing bodies wishing they could drop all pretence of decorum and go the whole way. She was too sinful for her own good, she reasoned as she bit upon sensitive parts of his skin. Morgause must never know of her weaknesses.

Eventually, Merlin pulled away, citing chores as his reason for leaving. Morgana couldn't fully repress a sigh as he straightened himself, trying to hide the evidence with a tug at his jacket and the artful rearrangement of his neckerchief. She called him once more, just by name in a soft, vulnerable voice. He couldn't resist and melted back into her arms as she climbed off the bed and she kissed him regretfully as though they might never see each other again. It was bittersweet and intense, lasting for many minutes until the need to breathe surfaced.

Years after Morgana's exile, that particular kiss still haunted Merlin.

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Merlin was never the best potion maker, so he was lucky Freya hung around...

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Hot, huh? Or not?


	13. Just Woken Up Kiss

**Prompt #13: Just Woken Up Kiss**

**Featuring: Merlin/Freya**

* * *

Two sprigs of mint, ten inches of frog's intestines, a handful of stickywort...

Merlin frowned in deep concentration, meticulously measuring out the required ingredients into a small bowl, remembering to add a drop of milk after each. He was creating a powerful sleeping potion that would hopefully subdue his nemesis enough, preventing him from endangering Camelot with his shameless treachery. Judging by the endless graceful movements of his fingers and constant biting of his lips, he was entirely lost to the outside world. He took no account of Gaius' meticulous shuffling inwards and outwards as he took care of the Kingdom's collective ailments, or that Guinevere had passed by and ruffled his hair as she left, or that Arthur had been observing him curiously from the doorway for a moment, adding the strange actions of his manservant to a list of suspicions that had been steadily growing for some time.

Merlin had passed into the realm of complete oblivion on those points.

The task was crystal clear: at precisely midnight of that day, Agravaine would sneak off on his horse to the outermost fringes of the Castle walls and wave a torch, signifying that the path had been set for Morgana's invasion. The sorceress would respond immediately in manic delight, urging forward the hordes of bandits she had been recruiting for the past year. Thus Camelot would be quickly invaded and under cover of night. Arthur would be caught entirely by surprise. Merlin could not allow this to happen, but his position was severely restricted by a host of obstacles. In fact, he had spent most of the morning moping about in despair until Freya, growing fed up of his self-pity roused him to action. This current idea was hers- should Agravaine never make it to warn Morgana, the latter's plans would be brought to an unexpected and inexplicable halt.

From the steps that led up to his tiny bedroom, the Druid Girl watched him with something akin to amusement and affection, marvelling at how he was actually making an effort to get the potion exactly right- for he was hopeless in these matters. She recalled the hours she had spent explaining the importance of measurement when making a soothing balm, using cobalt powder as an example, only for him to dunk the entire contents of his mortar because he couldn't be asked to go through the proper calculations. Their fingers had turned blue, and she had been apoplectic with rage.

There was the time he had accidentally burst the stomach of a dead frog; both of them were covered in reeking stomach fluids for the rest of the day. Another time, he had got it into his head that he would create a potion that would taste like any food he wanted it to compensate for the many missed meals he endured throughout the day. Needless to say, that hadn't worked; the only flavour he could discern was chicken and when he had poured it into the King's stew on a whim, Arthur had thrown up almost instantaneously and spent the next two days ill.

Merlin had been used for target practice at training as soon as Arthur had recovered and was only moved to pity because Freya had pleaded with him to forgive his manservant. The memory was amusing now, but at the time, she had been rather tearful about it, watching the King make Merlin run exhausting laps with a target on his back in retribution for his negligence.

Well today, he didn't seem to be causing any trouble, so she rose, heading outside for a walk.

"I will be back in a couple of minutes, Merlin."

"Mmm," came the distracted reply.

By now, the substance was starting to take form; first, bubbles had come spinning into the air, popping on his nose. Then a few sparks had cracked around the rim of his bowl, and now a fizzing sound was audible from amongst the sloshing sounds of moving liquid. All he had to do was embellish the properties of the potion. He had taken a short break to rifle through the well-worn pages of his medical and magical texts, but to no avail, and his spells seemed largely ineffective.

Eventually the answer- a relatively simple one- came to him in a flash; hot water.

Merlin would later find out that this was a huge mistake. The minute he added it, an unholy cloud of mist materialised from his potion and clogged his nostrils fiercely. His concentrated eyes dulled and snapped out of focus. Within three short seconds, he was lying unconscious on the floor, a thin, sticky trail of frog's intestine sandwiched between graceful fingers coated in blood. However long he remained in this sorry state he would never know. All he remembered next was opening his eyes blearily and staring into the loveliest pair of sienna eyes he had ever seen, and catching the beautiful scent of lavender intermingled with strawberries from the loose strands of thick mahogany-coloured hair that trailed so lightly onto his face. A radiant smile warmed his chest and suddenly he was strong enough to sit up; it must be some kind of enchantment.

"Hello, sweetheart."

"F-Freya.." he moaned, rubbing his eyes. "Wha-what happened?"

"You put yourself to sleep with the same fumes intended for Agravaine." Her laughter was only just repressed, but it bubbled around her lips.

"H-How-?"

"I saw what had happened, dispersed the fumes and bottle the liquid. Then I woke you up."

"So it's ready."

"Most definitely. All you need to do know is deliver it to dear Uncle."

Merlin chuckled. "Thank you, Freya," he murmured, pulling her closer. "I don't know what I would do without you."

She leaned in further, blocking off the sunshine eclipsed so perfectly behind her head and kissed him squarely on his gaping mouth, smiling as their lips met in that seamless union that still made Merlin's heart race every time. Now he was being woken up; there was just something mysterious and wonderful that she did with her lips that revitalised him. Maybe it was her being the Lady of the Lake or the way magic rolled off her in electrifying waves or just that she was the best woman he had ever met in his life, but with one kiss like that, Merlin could spend the next ten hours fully awake. he didn't blame himself when his hands rose up to cup her face or whether he parted his lips as far as he could.

This was like a slice of heaven.

All was interrupted when the oh-so familiar voice cut into their reverie from the doorway:

"Oh for the love of Camelot, give it a rest already!"

Ah well- good thing he didn't hear them talking about potions and a certain "dear Uncle"...

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Arthur would have never expected to be taking battle advice from a woman, let alone his sister...

* * *

So here are some of the repeat pairings; they will come depending on whether I have a different scenario for each one. Freylin seemed like a good choice, and this one is less depressing, so woo-hoo... Oh, and you might have noticed that Arthur interrupts A LOT of these instalments...


	14. Exhausted Kiss

**Prompt #14: Exhausted Kiss**

**Featuring: Arthur, Morgana**

* * *

No matter how sheltered Prince Arthur was, the unexpected always happened.

Uther had confessed to him that he had a sister- and none other than the highly irritating, far-too-smug-for-her-own good Morgana. Arthur hadn't waited around to hear all the gory details, but he had been flabbergasted and rather ungracious about it all- in his defense, being an only child came with the undeniable bonus of extra praise and attention, a perk he was loath to relinquish, especially to a girl. He felt upstaged. His father was always showering Morgana with dresses and jewels- anything, really. Well, that explained a lot. But still... he had contemplated arguing, as if that would make the King might burst out laughing and tell them they had been pranked. All to no avail. Morgana The Annoying Witch was actually, Morgana... Pendragon.

A chilling thought.

Filled with righteous anger (and on the verge of denouncing his father for not controlling his libido), the Prince had stormed off to his chambers and proceeded to vent his anger by making life hell for Merlin. He had tossed and turned all night before succumbing to sleep whereupon he was assaulted by a vicious nightmare consisting of Morgana's face twisted into that pathetic smirk she always wore. She cackled in a particularly devilish manner right into his face and screeched "I AM YOUR SISTER!" over and over until Arthur could take it no more and wore abruptly yelling "CURSE YOU, WITCH!", which of course attracted alarmed guards and his dishevelled father who had only come because he heard the word "witch"- signifying that something to do with magical was afoot. When his son informed him that there was nothing of the sort, all fatherly sympathy had dissipated faster than a puff of smoke and Arthur had been scolded about "unnecessary displays of emotion". A much subdued Prince had lain back in bed without making so much as a peep even when Morgana's disembodied face floated closer to his, unearthly hoots of laughter crowding his ears and making them ring like the ominous tolls of the bells rung when someone died.

He had run into Morgana in the corridor next day and promptly skirted the corner to avoid her. Merlin had been appalled with his discourteous manner, especially as (he pointed out in hushed tones), Morgana had clearly wanted to speak with him. Arthur felt guilty then, but pretended that everything was fine. A few hours later, he was just happening to stroll past his sis-, no- Morgana's chambers when he heard the dreaded sounds of female weeping. This was a horror that he had tried his hardest to avoid since the day he had been born; those banshee-like cries tore into the soul demanding uncomfortable things like comfort and understanding. Women couldn't be understood, he knew. He intended to simply waltz by as though he hadn't a care in the world when he heard something that made him freeze in his tracks:

"Don't cry, Morgana."

That was Guinevere's voice- comforting... Morg- wait, he had to see this. Arthur tiptoed back to the doorway and peered in. Yes, without a doubt there was the woman in question, sitting on her bed with her head slumped on her maidservant's shoulder. Guilt rushed through the Prince's body and he swallowed nervously; was she crying because...? Further eavesdropping proved him right:

"I don't care, anyway," Morgana wept as Gwen trailed soothing fingers through her hair. "He is an arrogant, stupid..."

Yep- that was definitely Arthur she was referring to- and he was finding it difficult to remain sympathetic to her cause with such insults being hurled his way. Then it got worse; Guinevere joined in.

"He is known to be very inconsiderate," the serving girl agreed; "Very selfish of him."

"I-I thought he would be p-pleased..."

Arthur didn't know whether to laugh, cry or cower in shame. Morgana thought that he would be pleased- it really was too funny! After all the catfights, jibes and sulking, she thought... But after indulging his quiet mirth, a fresh wave of guilt assaulted his conscience. It wouldn't go away, no matter how many times he tried to put it out of his mind. Morgana had been delighted to learn she had a brother- and he had shunned her because of his bruised ego. He really was a moron. The Prince watched as Guinevere gently laid his sister on the bed and made to leave the room. Time to dash and act as though he had never been there. Back inside his chambers (undetected), he ruminated on the sudden new change in his life. Was it all that bad? Yes, she was beyond irritating and defiant, and definitely an evil witch, but... well, the Prince could not help recalling some of the good times: hunting, fishing, play fighting... As much as it pained him to admit it, he had always held Morgana in some esteem- but only a little. The rest of the time she was positively insufferable. Still- could be worse, right?

He would live after all.

The next day, the Prince was scheduled to fight in one of those open-contest tourné's which were really just an opportunity for Uther to boast shamelessly to the visiting Lords and nobles how great a warrior his son was. Early that morning he was practising in the courtyard alone with vicious yet graceful swipes of his blade. On a whim, he decided to hop into the armoury to pick up a lighter sword. He stopped dead in the doorway when he saw Morgana there using a bow and arrow on a scrap of parchment with a picture on it. A picture of him. At least she had the grace to look ashamed when she found him glaring at her.

"Using my likeness as a target board- pretty elementary, no?"

"Elementary it may be, dear brother, but believe me it is entirely deserved."

Her cold hiss caught him off guard and at that moment, Arthur suddenly felt the need to apologize and have this nasty affair all over and done with. The fault was with himself; her anger was justifiable. However, the arduous process of apologizing had to be handled carefully; he couldn't be left looking weak, after all. He threw her his worst glare and collected his sword without another word.

However after the tourné, he stuck his lance though a wreath of flowers and presented it to her as she walked into the hall. Tentative surprise filled her eyes to cover the poignant expression of hope as she hesitated in front of him.

"Today, Morgana!"

She glared at him and yanked the wreath of his lance, but her hands were too vigorous and it snapped in half. Morgana shot a guilt glance at him, which was too much for the Prince; he burst out laughing. His sister stood there uncertainly, eyeing both the ruined flowers and her brother's shaking form. What could possibly be so funny? He had extended an olive branch and she had ripped it apart... Oh what the hell, it was funny. A tiny smile snuck onto her lips for a while before she succumbed and joined in. At that point, Arthur felt so uplifted; he was sweaty, bruised and bleeding from a fresh batch of wounds, but he was happy- and so was she. The final, thorny barrier had been breached and destroyed. As Arthur gently kissed her forehead, they both concluded that this might not be so bad after all.

Merlin was smiling at him knowingly later on. "Having a sister has changed you, sire."

"Shut up, Merlin."

* * *

**NEXT TIME:**Though far apart, Mordred never forgot Kara...

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So this was a request from a guest for an Arthur and Morgana instalment. I don't know whether they meant the pairing, but I prefer them as siblings.


	15. Kiss Along The Hips

**Prompt #15: Kiss Along The Hips**

**Featuring: Mordred/Kara**

* * *

Though the Knights had accepted him as one of their own, there were times when Sir Mordred felt oddly detached from the rest of them. He didn't know whether his isolation was either a blessing or a curse; he had always been largely alone since the old days, so joining the Knighthood had seemed like an excellent opportunity for companionship. In a way, he was almost content. He was honoured to serve under King Arthur, whom he had idolized since childhood, and everyone else had always treated him with respect and valued his worth… apart from Merlin. Nevertheless, he didn't have to spend every waking hour being subjected to the suspicious glares of a man whose trust and friendship he had hoped to gain- they were both united in their magic, after all. A familiar arm-punch from Gwaine or a nod from Elyan could quickly dispel the resilient hurt inflamed by Merlin's overt rejections- but at the end of a taxing day, he still felt alone.

Such times came around a friendly campfire, the perfect opportunity for the men to rest their aching bones and make merry with the free-flowing ale and witty banter. He would smile and laugh where appropriate, but he could not immerse himself in the sweet oblivion afforded by light-hearted discourse, no matter how hard he tried. No one was to know this until the day he noticed that he wasn't alone in his self-imposed solitude; from time to time, his eyes would catch Arthur caressing his wedding ring with a wistful expression illuminated by the dancing flames. The youngest recruit knew that Arthur deeply missed his Queen when he went of on patrol for weeks on end; he was generally careful not to show it, but the mask of indifference he wore was frequently rendered transparent, and full of cracks. Tonight, Mordred could see that the King had gradually tuned out of the current conversation- women (again)- resorting to drinking occasionally from a flagon and staring moodily into the fire. The Knight could understand, not having much to contribute to the discussion himself, and found himself moving to sit beside the King almost involuntarily, rousing the latter from his thoughts.

"You are well, my Lord?"

Arthur seemed to wake with a jolt. "Yes, Mordred," he affirmed without much conviction.

"You seem rather withdrawn."

If he had been any other Knight, perhaps Arthur would have said nothing, but there was something markedly different about the bond between King and this young, eager man, something that willed Arthur to loosen the barriers he had set up against the hidden temperamental side to the decisive warrior that he was. Even without his magic, Mordred could sense that the King was in the mood to talk, and possibly at length. Even then, he simply sat quietly, putting his King at ease- a tactic that was far more efficacious in loosening the tongue. Arthur liked that about Mordred; the boy didn't bully him into confessions, or wheedle until he had extricated every last drop of emotion like Merlin did; he just allowed things to progress in their own time.

"I- I just wish that I did not have to spend so much time away from Guinevere," he confessed, and the Knight simply nodded sympathetically, but the mere sentence had roused a dull ache inside his stomach, and a flare of harsh memories that had been torn from him a lifetime ago.

"Well..." he began carefully, "Whatever happens, you have the satisfaction of knowing that she awaits your return."

"If this patrol is not to be my last."

The King's words hung heavy in the air; a memento of the bitter truth in both their existences. Finally, Mordred spoke up.

"Better than loving someone who cannot be found."

Arthur glanced at his friend, temporarily curious about the tiniest hint of a waver inside a voice that wanted to sound nonchalant. It reminded him that there was much he had to learn about the newest recruit, it brought back a nagging thought at the back of his mind that considered Mordred to be rather introverted despite appearances of comradeship between the men.

"What do you mean?" he asked gently.

Mordred knew all too well; he sighed softly with his eyes focused on a remote point in the ecstatic fire and clasped his fingers together, prepared to release some of the pent-up pain he was forced to live with.

"Suppose there had been a woman that someone loved with all their heart- their only companion and best friend... Maybe someone once sat with her during the long nights around a fire such as this one... Maybe the two of them talked and laughed about mundane things, never knowing that one day they would be separated forever..."

He didn't tell the King everything- he couldn't guarantee that he would be able to keep his composure for long enough. He did not divulge the way she would smile at him as he bandaged the many cuts and bruises she acquired during her day. She had been training with the sword and lance, much to the disapproval of her mother, who wished for her to settle down with an elder Druid. He was proud that she had become skilled in self-defence and often spent his spare hours fashioning daggers and spears for her, protected with various hexes he would pick up from old tomes left around by the Elders. He said nothing about how a word from her could rouse him to action and make him believe in any cause she committed herself to, nor of how she loved to run her fingers through his curly locks and tell him how handsome he was.

Most of all, he refused to reveal their most tender moments; how he would gaze into her eyes and be consumed with a violent shudder produced by love. His hands would ache to explore her supple body and she would never refuse his gentle caresses as long as he took care with her. When she lay back against her cloak, his greatest pleasure came from kissing her along the slender curves of her hips, relishing her moans of encouragement and propelling him to enter, claiming that which was his.

No, he told Arthur nothing of that; it was entirely in the past. Neither did he wish for the insistent pricking of tears to be visible; he was a Knight after all. Joining the Order came with a crippling weight of responsibility and expectations from others- he had sworn an oath to be servant to the people of Camelot, not wallowing in misery over past love.

"That someone is you, isn't it?"

Sir Mordred bowed his head and did not reply.

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** After escaping from some nasty villains, Guinevere was glad to see a friendly face...

* * *

Wow, another depressing episode. Read and weep. Next instalment is going to be light-hearted.

**Also, I am noting down all requests, and they will be coming up as soon as my forward schedule is free!**


	16. One To Make You Jealous

Hi guys! Just to say that I am planning instalments for all the requests- thanks for sending them. Had to update the "NEXT TIME" featuring relating to this instalment because my posting schedule is catching up with me, so I am trying to write some more episodes ahead of myself. Thanks for reading as well.

* * *

**Prompt #16: One To Make You Jealous**

**Featuring: Guinevere, Leon**

Right now, Guinevere hated the phrase "could be worse."

She was inside a dank, stone holding pen at the back of a thatched roof house that hid behind various trees in Camelot's lush forest. A previous escape attempt had demoted her from being an unwilling honoured guest to the resident smuggler to the dangerous prisoner who had bitten a guard in her bid for freedom. It was cold, the window was too high and the walls were too smooth. Her only source of solace was that the yellow-toothed guard had stuck his head round the door just as he was leaving with a malicious grin and sneered:

"Could be worse, beautiful!"- and with a sinister chuckle he had clumped off back down the passageway, presumably to chortle with his equally repulsive mates about how the "busty wench 'as been locked away, milord!". Guinevere shuddered at their raucous laughter, and proceeded to spend the next quarter of an hour thinking up all kinds of nasty punishments for the perpetrators of the crime before it dawned on her that she was still their prisoner, and should she fail to remove herself from this inconvenient situation, it really would be worse. Quickly, she rose and paced about the room, eyes darting over every convenience to hand. It was a pitiful sight; only a bed, some flints, a rusty nail driven into the wall, and some planks of wood at the back were available. Above her, she could see wooden beams running across the ceiling. With her hands tied, it would be difficult to utilise any of these potential tools, unless...

It was a haphazard idea- not to mention the fact that it had been thought up on a whim, but... The ropes that bound her were thin, and if she managed to prise away the rust on the nail, perhaps she could...

Guinevere climbed onto the bed and brought her bound hands up to the nail, aligning the crux of the knot with its head. Once in position, she started to scrape the ropes against a sharp edge of said nail, hoping against hope that she would be free. At first, nothing seemed to happen, even as she scraped harder. Then she realized that she was not exploiting the natural weakness in the material- the parts that had been stretched due to her being tied so tightly. With this knowledge in mind, she set about her task with renewed zeal and was almost smiling when she heard the sound of torn fabric and her hands came apart.

Now to escape. Standing on the bed, she could see that the window was much larger than it looked, but a quick tug of its chilly iron bars showed her why she would not be able to abscond her confinement in this way. Jumping off, she went back to pacing her cell, biting her lips as schemes flew through her mind quickly. She had flints, she had planks of wood, she had a bed. Something must be possible; she would not just sit and allow these barbarians to capture her and boast about it- she wasn't just going to escape, she was going to give them something to think about whilst doing so...

Aha. Guinevere ran to the wooden planks. As she had calculated, they were thick and heavy- the perfect tool for knocking someone out. As she measured the weight in her hand, the rest of her plan fell into place. She dragged the bed until it was resting alongside the right hand wall adjacent to the door. She then folded the mattress in two so that when she stood on it, she would have some height leverage. Then she jumped down, flushed with her own brilliance, and grabbed the flints. Why rest at knocking the men out when she could dish out a fiery revenge to boot? Being a blacksmith's daughter, she knew how to light flints, and when the flames were applied to the wooden planks, she had a crude weapon- but one to be feared. It didn't take long for Guinevere to light up and gently transfer the burgeoning flame to the top of the plank and watch the latter begin to burn.

Now for the diversion.

Armed, she jumped off the bed once more and began to beat the door with another plank, whilst the burning one was wedged precariously in the crook of her other arm- a dangerous arrangement, but she didn't have time to think about that. Soon enough, hurried footsteps were audible. Guinevere hoped onto the bed again as the door opened and a guard peered in. Before even one eyebrow could rise in astonishment, he felt a searing pain at the back of his head and neck as something struck it. With a strangled cry, he slumped onto the floor, flames licking at his armour. Guinevere dropped down beside him and struck him again for good measure before dragging his body into a corner and stealing his sword. She crept into the passageway and was pleased to find that the thick guard had left the key in the door. Now he would stay there for good, she thought, pocketing the key.

As she snuck down the corridor, she heard bangs coming from her former prison; the guard was obviously signalling to his friends; she had to hurry. Round and round she ran, keeping to the walls, trying not to make her footsteps heard. A few times she stumbled only to rise once more with even more determination until she ran into a wall of chainmail and staggered back, dazed.

When her vision cleared, it was to see Sir Leon goggling at her in amazement.

"G-Guinevere!"

A delighted smile lit up her face at the sight of her childhood friend and in a wave of pure euphoria at seeing a friendly face, threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. She only pulled away when there was an awkward cough from someone who sounded suspiciously like Merlin and she found herself face to face with an extremely annoyed and glowering Arthur. In the background, she saw Gwaine whisper something to Elyan which made both men snicker. Percival was looking another way, Galahad was pretending that there was something on his sword and Agravaine seemed very agitated. Merlin was... just being Merlin and smiling inappropriately. She cleared her throat.

"A-Arthur..." she began nervously, regretting her exuberance. "H-Hello."

"Guinevere," he replied briskly, nodding in her direction before announcing in a clearer voice that they could now make good their collective escape.

Leon allowed himself a quiet chuckle of glee as he followed the rest. Jealous Arthur- ha! It really was too funny.

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**NEXT TIME:** Merlin always privately said that George couldn't stop kissing the King's ass...

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Yeah- mostly Guinevere and some slight Arwen in this one. I needed a more light-hearted piece again to counter-balance that depressing Mordred/Kara episode.


	17. Kiss On The Sly

**Hi again! Sorry, I haven't been updating for the past couple of weeks- this is what an upcoming exam does to you!**

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**Prompt #17: Kiss On The Sly**

**Featuring: Merlin/Sefa**

"Therefore, I think that His Majesty should consider..."

Merlin paused and swiped his quill against his lips, brows furrowed in thought. What should His Majesty consider as a better Hex: the stunning spell or the disarming spell? Briefly, he visualized both vices inside his head, trying once again to gauge which one had the edge over the other. Hmm, one had the immediate effect of freezing an opponent in place, which would prevent them from charging forward and executing whatever nefarious plans they had in store, but the disarming spell would grant the immediate effect of relieving an enemy of their weapons- that was also highly useful, probably more efficacious in inducing surrender, but then that might also be the case with a frozen opponent... He glared at the endless piece of parchment in front of him, as if his annoyance and boredom would somehow yield a speedy answer. Frustrated, he magically erased his previous conclusion, and set about formulating a new premise:

"His Majesty therefore has two options; the stunning spell or the disarming spell. The first would render a potential threat immobile, the second would remove any weapon they might be holding. His Majesty must therefore decide which is more important to him; immobilization or a defenceless enemy. His Court Sorcerer will happily support whatever he decides."

Merlin drew back, satisfied. Now that he had this pesky report out of the way, surely there would be time to idle away the hours in a more leisurely fashion. He had not anticipated that he would ever become accustomed to spending his time as he wished, but exploring life had thrown up so many little pleasures that he could not believe he had overlooked back in the old days of menial labour. He loved showing the Lower Town children wonderful magic tricks with alarming pyrotechnics, loved taking walks in the woods, loved reading in the Chamber of Records, loved spending time with all of the wonderful friends he had around the Castle, especially that lovely Druid girl, Sefa... All he needed to do was hand this cursed bit of writing and he would be free- for now.

Of course, that wasn't the case. His fastidious master was not pleased with the conclusion to Merlin's report.

"What do you mean, "His Majesty therefore has two options"?" Arthur objected; "I asked you for the most effective way, not the most effective TWO ways! How am I supposed to decide between this stunning and disarming spell? I don't have magic! Write this out again!"

"You have to be joking!"

"Fine- amend the entire conclusion. Choose one."

"Sire, it took me three hours to research both these spells; I even had to bribe Geoffrey to reopen an archive from before the Purge!Be reasonable!"

The King glared at the unsatisfactory report and then studied Merlin's pleading expression... After a spirited battle between his demanding side and his merciful side, he relented- but only fractionally.

"Amend the last few sentences and be quick about it."

On Merlin's (highly relieved) way out, he bumped into the very woman he had been thinking about as he wrote earlier that morning; Sefa, and all thoughts about his current workload went out of the window. For the past few months, shy looks had transformed into a strange and slightly awkward arrangement between the pair, which involved a small measure of vaguely amorous activity. No explanations for this had been brought forward by either of them, and they weren't seeking one. It was just generally understood that should they be feeling in the mood, one or the other might conspire to seduce the other in a deserted, cobwebbed corner about the Castle- hardly romantic, but certainly convenient, as long as no one else was passing by. Today, the "urge" had returned- this time, at Merlin's behest. Without a word, he pulled her into a corner and wrapped exhausted arms around her slim waist, a gesture which she happily returned. Even as she was happy to melt into his arms, she could sense from his eyes that he was not best pleased today.

"What is wrong, Merlin?"

"I need your help; which is better; the disarming Hex or the stunning Hex? If I don't have an answer soon, Arthur will get even more snottier than he usually is, and I really need a break."

"Hm, that is a difficult question," she mused, stroking his hair; "I would suggest that you advise Arthur to choose."

"I have, and he isn't happy- but then again, what's new?"

She kissed his brow gently with a grin. "Well then make it up! He doesn't have magic, so he has no way of telling. And I am sure that you have done all the necessary research to prove that both spells are equally suited to the purpose of defence."

The usual impudent smirk worked its way across Merlin's face, burning away any traces of anxiety and annoyance from beforehand. Of course; how could he have forgotten the number one rule, the most beautiful art form in history- cheating? He excelled at it; it had never failed him. And he would use it once more, for his own peace of mind. Brilliant- Sefa was a genius. After nodding and planning out how he would effect his mild deception, he pulled her further into the corner. It was pretty clear to the Druid girl what was coming next, but she was still rather apprehensive.

"Merlin, someone will see! You know Arthur comes down this corridor so many tttt-"

Apparently, any further protests were lost when his sensuous mouth closed over hers, cutting off any dissent. She didn't want to argue any more, except complain when he pulled away far to fast for her liking. She claimed he was being stingy, which called for penitential action from Merlin; a faster, warmer decoration of kisses lavished on whatever piece of smooth, eager skin her could find. Before long, the whole process was getting out of hand, even with Merlin's scientific placement of his kisses.

"Alright, that's enough, Sefa," he breathed, biting his lips to regain his composure. "If I get caught kissing on the sly like this, my neck will be skewered."

They both slipped out separately to avoid suspicion- but Arthur did walk down that corridor, and he wasn't stupid. His manservant sidling out of the shadows in the wake of his wife's maidservant.

Did they take him for a fool?

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**NEXT TIME:**All kinds of mayhem, when I decide which pairing to do!

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It is nice to get back into writing again...


	18. Drunken Kiss

**Okay, this request was from justasreader13, so thanks for that. I hope you either enjoy or hate it; the choice is yours. All opinions welcome- a round of applause or public execution?**

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**Prompt #18: Drunken Kiss**

**Featuring: Morgana/Lancelot**

"So much echo!"

Morgana laughed, pulling the dazed Knight by the hand as they trudged further and further into the Castle wine cellars. The idea for this expedition had been hers, of course; she loved adventure, even if she was often lacking a companion to share the pleasures of her wild whims with. Fortunately, she had managed to capture the attention and courtesies of the newest Knight, which was convenient; and now that she had insisted that it was for his benefit that he explored as much of Camelot as he could, she could drag him alongside her wherever she wanted. In this case, Morgana had conveniently failed to mention that the wine cellars were strictly off limits, as these were left to mature for the King's benefit- although he suspected from the obscure location of said rooms that this might be the case. Somehow, he had decided that it would be more important to remain courteous to the King's ward than to remain within the boundaries of the law; so here he was, allowing her to hold his hand and listening to her excited gossip about various oddities of life in Camelot.

"...And he is such a greedy pig, and I heard that he is carrying on at least three affairs, which I find astonishing given that he has the face of a sour, mouldy turnip, but I suppose he is either big enough or that the promise of nice dresses is enough for some women..."

"Ah," he coughed, embarrassed by her lacerating candour; he had expected that women would be more circumspect about such facts of life. The whole area made him squirm in discomfort, and he had nothing to contribute to the subject. "I see."

"Ooh look, there is my favourite wine; it is about 300 years old, I think. Let's have a taste!" Without waiting for any kind of assent, she pulled him forward like a sack of potatoes and grabbed some clean glasses standing in isolation on a small table kept nearby- no doubt for Uther's private tasting sessions. With quick hands, she unscrewed the tap and giggled as a small deluge of wine spilt onto the flagstones before them. "Ooh, woops! Here you go!"

Lancelot glanced at the liquid suspiciously, before remembering that it was more important to appear polite than to consider the consequences of stealing Royal beverages, so he grimaced and took a draught. As the liquid fizzed and swirled across his tongue, he realized that Morgana was absolutely right; it was certainly very delicious... so much so that he was not averse to a second glass.

"Have as much as you want!"

"It is, ah... very kind of you... This certainly is a tasty wine. I never really had much occasion to drink something as... as fine as this when I was a boy..."

He knew he was rambling now, and that his third glass had everything to do with the continuation of his flowing speech about the mundane facts of his childhood- was she even listening to him? His eyes met hers shyly to find that yes, she was observing him carefully, head cocked to one side. She was even nodding with sympathy at the appropriate moments and patting his arm from time to time as the tale took a gloomy, tragic turn and his motives for travelling to Camelot gradually came into light. All the time, the top up of glistening wine never ceased, and his tongue had veered away from the course of his own life to anything else he could think of:

"What does the King need all this drink for?" he slurred, sitting beside her against a stack of barrels that were heaped into a neat pyramid underneath a large, grated, cobwebbed window. Morgana smiled stupidly and swayed slightly from side to side, her shoulders bumping into his repeatedly. "One man cannot imbibe this all- even in a lifetime, surely?"

"You underestimate the King," she advised finally, after mispronouncing her words several times. Another swig of wine apparently increased her confidence: "In Uther's eyes, more is more is more... Always have more, never less. I am fed up of more!"

Her feisty exclamation was met with a nod of approval from the Knight who had taken to drumming the fingers of one restless hand repetitively on his drawn up knees. "Greed is evil, and causes so many problems in life... In the perfect world, everybody would be satisfied with what they had and there would be no need for wars."

"Sounds good," Morgana drawled, chucking down another gulp of wine; "I heartily approve of your ideas, Sir Lancelot, heartily, heartily approve. You are really so intelligent, you know, though you grew up in a village... Hey, wait- I thought you were a noble?"

"Not true, I'm afraid," came the casual reply; "I faked my credentials to become a Knight in defiance of a rule which presumes the unworthiness of common men like me. I am glad I lied, dishonourable as that is."

Morgana shrugged the whole matter of fraud off her shoulders as she would cast off a shawl. "Uther's rules are prejudiced, I agree. Your reasoning is well-founded- besides you are an excellent Knight. And everyone has secrets. Including me- I... I have magic, you know. I am a sorceress- watch..."

She whispered something unsteadily under her breath and a beautiful, perfectly rounded globule of light materialised into her palm. Lancelot gasped In delight and shifted closer to her.

"That- that's beautiful," he whispered brokenly. "This is a great talent that you have, Morgana; the fabrication of something almost unreal simply from a few words."

Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes; the very eyes of this vivacious, dare-devil, confident girl who could deliver a resounding sharp retort or wrestle a man to the ground. Lancelot studied her interestedly, awed by how such a compliment could have brought to light a lonely young woman yearning for independence and acceptance. "Y-You think so?"

The raw hopefulness in her eyes brought a slight catch in his throat despite his drunkenness; it was as though she was on tenterhooks, at a tipping point, solely dependent on his approval to prevent her from slipping into a chasm of despair... And he knew that even if his conviction hadn't been genuine, he would never have denied those beautiful, glistening eyes anything in the world.

"I know it for a fact," he confirmed in a remarkably steady voice for his condition. "It is wonderful; show me something else."

With a delighted smile, her eyes flashed once again and the globule of light melded into a faerie tap-dancing across her hand. It was petite, covering in glittering diamond-shaped lights and made a swishing sound as it moved from the ball of her thumb to the tips of her fingers. Both Morgana and Lancelot gazed at the miniature wonder, enraptured with its ethereal beauty. Then the Knight looked at Morgana briefly, studying skin that was paler than he remembered, ruby lips that were sure to be soft enough to bite, and those sweet-smelling curls... she really was rather exquisite herself...

As if she could read his mind, her eyes met his and then dropped to his moistened mouth. With a theatrical inclination of the head, she closed the gap between their faces and kissed him boldly on the mouth, giving him just the right amount of herself and the promise of something more, which made his blood begin to fizz erratically in anticipation. How could he not join in, pull her head closer to himself and allow his mouth to roam over hers infinitely? He was certainly beginning to lose awareness of anything else save for the warmth of her mouth, her unique scent, and that magic that he could feel thrumming through her veins... It was rich and intoxicating, probably improved by them both being quite drunk and neither one was keen to detach themselves from the other until a loud voice cut through the reverie:

"Oi, what's going on here?" A guard was lounging in the doorway, glaring at the two of them whilst chomping on a drumstick. "This is the King's wine-cellar, not your damn bedroom! Get out now before I alert the Royal Guard!"

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**NEXT TIME: **Another request is being cooked up... stay tuned. EDIT: Arwen are up next!

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Alright, so I can feel myself starting to get back into the flow of better writing for this one- bigger word count, too. I am pretty much near the end of this series- just a few requests and one that I have been planning for some time, and then I will be done.


	19. The I Still Love You Kiss

**Two instalments of "Kiss On my List Collection" in a day! I would like to say that this was because I am being super productive, but really, I have got so much going on that I pushed myself to write two pieces. Here is another Arwen instalment, and it is quite sad.**

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**Prompt #19: The "I Still Love You" Kiss**

**Featuring: Arthur/Guinevere**

"From Point A, the first deployment will advance through the Castle's southern entrances, to be joined by the second deployment," Arthur was explaining to those assembled around him, using a long branch to trace out shapes in a patch of earth; "Then the third and fourth deployments will aim to cut off the Southrons at strategic points B and C. Once this is achieved, the fourth, fifth and sixth deployments will work together to cut off any further points of convergence for the Southrons, which I anticipate will be at strategic points D, E and F. Understood?"

"Yes, Sire," they replied obediently, fingering their weapons in a mixture of trepidation and excitement.

"Once the Southrons have been subdued, the sixth deployment will advance to the Throne Room, flanked by the seventh deployment. It is hoped that the eighth deployment will have overcome any reserve enemy forces and converge with said previous groups to face Morgana. Got that?"

"Yes, Sire."

The invigorated King now began arranging his men into their respective groups as he saw fit, inspecting their weapons and reiterating instructions wherever was necessary. When the gathered crowd had begun to thin as men and women moved to their allocated deployments, their was a tiny change in Arthur's mood; the decisive tone had no entirely dissipated, but his eyes grew slightly more evasive.

"You are the sixth deployment and will be fighting front-line when we advance towards the throne room," he announced a little stiffly, still not making complete eye contact with everybody. Tristan and Isolde nodded in approval, Merlin just replied in the affirmative and the fourth woman just stared moodily at the ground, not seeming to have acknowledged what had just been said. "I want you to be prepared for heavy resistance. Remember, this is battle; you must either kill or be killed. Is anyone uncomfortable with that?"

No one replied, and Arthur nodded in satisfaction, knowing that he had chosen the right people for the most difficult task of them all. Here were perhaps the bravest fighters Camelot had to hand; they would not fail him, he was sure. A calm silence descended on the five; each were probably wrapped up within their own thoughts- whatever one could think about before a great battle where there were sure to be heavy losses endured by both sides. Who knew whether they would see each other again before tomorrow was up? Who would survive and who would be struck down? Only the Fates could tell. So they all stood quietly, savouring any less peace of mind afforded to them by this deceptive, sunny day in at the camp, mentally preparing themselves for tomorrow's carnage. Whilst they did so, Arthur's eyes flickered over to the other woman, who had still not looked up; he found himself wondering what she was thinking about- him? Her possible death? Something entirely different? He couldn't tell- neither could he ask her, not any more. He remembered those days when he would find her brooding somewhere and would gently lift her chin to enquire what was wrong. But those days were over, and it was entirely her fault.

With a sharp breath, Arthur cleared his throat and turned away, ostensibly to monitor his other men and confer with Leon.

That evening, he was coming back from inspecting the terrain with Leon, noting with approval that many had already settled down for sleep. Just about to turn in himself, he noticed her huddled up against a tree, with her knees drawn up. A solitary fire danced in front of her, lighting up tearful eyes and her fingers were intertwined restlessly. He told himself that he didn't care; she wasn't his concern any more- but even as the words tumbled quietly from his lips, he knew that he was telling an atrocious lie. Still, he fought against his inner reserves and began to turn away, leave her to weep. She should suffer, he argued within himself; she should suffer as she made me suffer. She should shed tears as I did, and spend her days in listless oblivion. She deserves this...

And then hearing her continue to weep silently cracked his resolve. He cursed violently under his breath and turned on his heel. Only one minute- he would see what was wrong and then leave. He had no time for her, after all.

But her vulnerable wide-eyed look as he approached played even more havoc with his resistance. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of her awkwardly.

"Guinevere..." (How he had missed saying her name!) "You need to rest." Trying not to sound concerned was the hardest part; it seemed that even after all this time, it was far too easy to care so deeply for her. Why must this be?

"Not tired," she whimpered, wiping at her eyes. It was a futile effort, as more tears came streaking down her cheeks to replace those that had seeped into her linen blouse. Arthur could feel the final dregs of his self-control trickle away little by little. Without another word, he stepped forward and knelt down next to her.

"Look, if you don't want to fight, you can-" He wasn't entirely surprised to see her shaking her head repeatedly. "You should try and sleep now, instead of worrying about tomorrow." This only served to make her cry even harder with her head inside her hands. That was it; the King who could lead several thousand men to face vicious enemies, magical creatures and sorcerers alike could not bear to see this woman out of all in the kingdom, so utterly dejected, miserable, devoid of hope. He felt his heart melt, emotionless eyes turned soft, he leant forward and carefully prised her hands away from her face. "Guinevere..." he whispered gently, all of that pent-up, senseless love rushing back in his tone. He couldn't fight it, at least not for now. Tomorrow, he would cold-heartedly remind her that she had destroyed everything between them forever, but he simply wasn't strong enough tonight. "Guinevere, don't cry-please..." Now he was wiping her tears away... then his lips were covering hers- tentatively at first, and then spurred by an explosion of warmth, they began to move more urgently as he realized this might be the last time he would ever see her. Feeling her lips part underneath his made him feel dizzy with a searing, vivacious pleasure and all he could think of was the taste of her, her moist warmth and how he must have all of her before the night was done.

He pulled her to her feet and away from the camp, down through some trees that framed a small pond. She knew then what he wanted, even before she was lying beneath him writhing as his mouth sent thrills racing underneath her skin, even before he claimed her, even before her eyes were half-lidded as her body savoured his pleasure. But after she released herself, whispering his name, there was a moment she had not anticipated; when she had felt him staring at her, even in the dark, long after they had made love. When she asked him why, he didn't answer.

Because he had almost told her that he still loved her.

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**NEXT TIME:** Extending the series here exclusively on for requests: Merlin/Elena (shelle-ma-belle), Merlin/Gwaine, Mithian/Leon (justareader13). Stay tuned!

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I know, this was depressing. Bear with me.


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